T2: So Tiny Tyronica
by thedorkygirl
Summary: Ty has learned that her siblings are alive, but will her search for them show the results she wants? A new danger lurks on the horizon, but will the animosity between Ty and Zack hamper her plans? GIVEN UP.
1. Leaving

So Tiny Tyronica  
Number two in the Tyronica series. If you want to read number one -- suggested -- called Part of Being What I Am, please go to .  
  
Okay, here it is, the much anticipated second! How is it? Good? Hopefully!!!!!!!  
  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~  
  
  
Part .01  
  
All through the trip from France, I heard not a single soul's thoughts but my own. I was no longer the hated Alison Marie. I had always detested that name, for the mere fact that it was not me.   
  
Who was I?  
  
I was a girl. A thirteen year old built much the same as a ten or eleven year old. Having the classic Arian features of blonde hair and blue eyes, I was to be considered a pretty child. My hair was long, for I had not cut it in three years, and it hung defiantly straight down my back, no amount of gels ever holding a curl in.  
  
I had a birthmark -- a barcode. Twelve digits woven forever into my genetic code. It was my tracking system. My forever known part.  
  
I could hear thoughts, view memories, see through other's eyes, courtesy of these who gave me the barcode. A veritable Manticore from Manticore, I had learned long ago how to construct a wall to block out people's thoughts from my head; how to open a small door so that I was able to go into theirs.  
  
I also had been able to move objects. That part of me was interesting, but seldom used, or a least consciously. I was able to lift small objects -- such as children -- out of my pathway, but with much fatigue. It simply was not worth it to move anything over five or six ounces, because I would drain energy, oddly enough -- and everything worth lifting is usually a lot heavier. True, the more I worked on it, the lesser became my need for sleep, but I wasn't interested in working on it.  
  
Of course, I had been able to morph. I had stopped, though, because of the death of my brothers and sisters. I needed to practice morphing with a lifeline, or I would most certainly lose site of whatever the mission and stay trapped forever in the shape. So I had stopped.  
  
Now Zack had told me my brothers and sisters were alive, so I might be able to begin my morphing career up again. I would begin by morphing into a cat -- the animal that came easiest to me. I suppose it to be all the feline DNA in me.  
  
Zack and I didn't speak after we boarded the plane from France, after I left the fake ghost of a life I had there. Zack and I didn't need to talk. There were, though, things I wanted to know.  
  
"Who did you find?"  
  
"Martin," came Zack's grunted reply. I could tell he wasn't in the mood to talk, so I kept on.  
  
"Come on, Zack," I begged. The fasten your seatbelts sign came on. I fastened mine, without thinking, using telekinetics. I realized it and grabbed my belt when a steward came by to remind Zack to fasten his seatbelt. Smugly, I reached over and fastened him in.  
  
After the plane, Zack and I walked to a bus stop. I wasn't impressed with the mode of transportation that Zack had selected.  
  
"Remind me again why we couldn't have rented a car?" I asked in a long-suffering voice. Zack shrugged. I had forgotten how much he did that. Come to think of it, back and Mom and Dad's I used to do it a lot, too. Was it some sort of disease that was going around in the States? Zack talked even less on the bus than on the plane.  
  
We rode the bus from somewhere in New York to somewhere in Nevada. We could have gotten there faster on foot, if we'd jogged Manticore style. Then we switched transportations and went by train. I sat and let my thoughts wash over me.  
  
[gray thoughts]  
  
I'm still ten, I'm at Mom and Dad's, play army with Zack. We're having fun. I'm running all over, almost tripping over Lorna several time. Zack catches me when I run past his hiding spot and he tosses me up in the air. I manage to land away from him and I run to a place to hide.  
  
"You're a good soldier," he tells me when he finds me. I know its a real compliment and I smile, but Mom frowns.  
  
"Ty's a little girl, Zack," she reminds him. Zack looks down at me -- well, duh, he already knew that! -- while mom continues speaking. "She's not a soldier."  
  
"Mom," I tell her, "I'm a soldier." Mom's face turns a little odd. "Don't worry," I add, "I'm a good one." I can hear, with the soft thoughts that I am able to, how angry Mom is at Zack. Maybe Zack can hear it too. He picks me up and swings me around.  
  
"You're my Tiny Ty," he calls out as I squeal. "You're my Tiny Tyronica!"  
  
[/gray thoughts]  
  
Zack talked more on the train. Maybe it was because we had an entire compartment to ourselves -- courtesy of yours truly, the super mind tweaker -- maybe it was because I kept zipping and unzipping his shoes with my telekinetic abilities. I don't know. At least he talked some.  
  
After he finished speaking, I let him relax. I sat down comfortably and started sorting the information. I always sorted information before I digested its meaning. Any other way would be like me putting onmy socks and then my shoes. Which, thankfully, I had never done.  
  
When I got the information sorted in the way that I wanted it to be sorted, I carefully began to take the meaning of it in.  
  
Martin. Zack had found Martin. He had found him in California, in a town by Sacramento called Elk Grove. Apparently, Martin was in a group home. I got that much from the bus ride into Elk Grove. It was a few hours work, but it wasn't that bad.  
  
When we got to the building -- a quick walk, no problem -- it was clear that Martin was in a much better group home than I had ever dreamed of, when I had been bouncing from home to home in those first three months. Then again, I had gotten a family soon after, I had stayed only a few times in the group homes. Martin was still in them, three years after we escaped.  
  
"How did you know it was him?" I asked quietly, as Zack and I slowly walked the steps that lead to an impressive doorway.  
  
"Saw his barcode. So, I went up to him and asked if he'd seen you recently. Poor kid nearly wet himself," Zack's voice was unsympathetic. Opening the door, he added, "I told him I'd be back with you, so he'd better not leave. He says he knows where the other are."  
  
My breath caught in my throat as we walked up to the receptionist. So Martin knew where the others were. How glad I was of that. I barely noticed the receptionist's greeting, but I did notice he was short. He was maybe as tall as Mom, and that's pretty short for a guy. I felt a wave of gratitude wash over me; short people always make me feel better about myself.  
  
"Yes," began Zack, in response to the receptionist's question on how he may help us. I shrugged -- HA! -- because I needed a little rest after that walk. I popped some vitamins and then sat down, smiling as serenely as I could. I held up ten fingers, indicating I needed ten minutes. Zack gave me a look that told me I was going to get it later on, then told the receptionist he was thinking of putting me into foster care. I sat down on the bench and closed my eyes. Time for a little Insta-sleep.  
  
[gray thoughts]  
I'm in bed, on my stomach, whispering to Martin, at Manticore. His eyes, brown, are wide as I tell him of what I'd listened to that day, the stories that seemed so wonderful.  
  
" . . . And they give the person things, wrapped in a sort of paper, so that it's a surprise," I tell him, trying to catch the every detail of the conversation. Martin grins and is about to speak when Lezli interrupts him.  
  
"That's a lie," she says hotly. I stand up, menacingly. Lezli looks down at the floor and quickly mumbles an apology. I sit back down, but Martin, always fearful of Lezli's temper, doesn't want to listen anymore. I slowly think that I should have struck Lezli across the mouth, for having her being impertinent.   
  
[/gray thoughts]  
  
I woke up, suddenly. My ten minutes must've be up. I jumped up and touched Zack's shoulder.  
  
"Thank goodness," he said, stopping his conversation with the receptionist, "I almost went home in a trade of you and this little Korean girl here who's prettier."   
  
I hit Zack on the arm, then went over to the receptionist. Smiling, I made him lead the way to his computer. He turned it on, then, under my control, I carefully made him search for all male boys named Martin. As was my luck, there was only one, including a picture of the Martin. I opened the file and saw, very much to my relief, my brother smiling back at my from a photo. Martin was always one to smile in the photos, even more than myself. I got the receptionist to delete all the files on Martin. I searched for words on the computer such as tattoos, barcode, genetics. I found a few, got the man to delete them. Once everything was done, I let him fall asleep, gently, quietly.  
  
"You don't need to mediate anymore," Zack remarked casually. I motioned for him to be quiet. I then tore down my wall and let the voices and the thoughts of the surrounding masses enter my mind.  
  
Listening, I searched until I found words and names there were familiar. My family's names, my own name. I rushed myself into the mind of that person, carefully, so that I was hopefully undetectable. I took a chance and viewed what he was seeing at the moment.   
  
It was a garden of some sorts. There was a wall on directly behind several rose bushes, and there appeared to be a bicycle path directly in front of him. I saw no children or adults. Memorizing every detail of the picture, I forced it before Zack's eyes. He blinked, then nodded. Making some hand signals -- how well I remembered them! -- he conveyed the way to go.  
  
So Zack had already scoped the place out. Exactly what I had been hoping for, we needn't go and search the place I saw out. I could always count on Zack to be careful. I could always count on him to be prepared.  
  
We walked down the hall with strides that gave the idea of purpose to our gait. With unspoken understanding, I followed him silently, not saying a word. I felt suddenly as Manticore as I'd ever felt -- only more in control of myself.  
  
When met and questioned, I quickly disposed of the inquisitive person. Simply made him or her continue walking, forget our faces, forget our presence. It was so easy.  
  
Take a sharp turn, Zack opened the door to what was obviously a back garden. I followed after him, keen on seeing my brother.   



	2. Standing

Part .02  
  
Martin was standing over by the edge of the garden, his back to us. His hair was much blonder than it appeared to be in the picture, and much shorter; almost a crew cut, but not quite. As I stood there for a few milliseconds, wondering how long ago his picture had been taken and put into the computer files, I held my breath.  
  
"Martin," I finally released the breath with that one syllabled word. He turned his head sharply. I can barely stop my thoughts from breaking down the wall that I had so carefully put up. Smiling, he raced toward me. I was reminded of one time before, when that same thing had happened.  
  
[gray thoughts]  
  
I'm seven or eight, the age is blurry and hard to tell. Mikaele and I are outside. I can see Frances ahead, in the distance, speaking to Martin, fighting with Martin. Mikaele and I don't care at this moment for anything. We are making troops out of twigs, leaves, and other foliage. Picking up a large purple flower, I methodically shred it into pieces, twenty, enough for the entirety of my troop.  
  
We're supposed to be on a mission. However, it is a set time limit mission. We are not wanted nor expected back until fifty minutes has passed. Its supposed to teach us patience, teach us to follow orders. We always finish these sort of missions as quickly as we can, then we scatter -- in a radios of about ten meters -- in the area.  
  
I watch appreciatively as Frances and Martin and practice some moves. They are not the best, they are not the worst. They are quite in the middle, unimpressive with not being good and not being bad. They both have my best wishes, at that moment, to become the best that they can be.  
  
Fran is large, dark. By far the biggest of us, she has the curliest hair I can imagine. Its very thin, much thinner than my hair, but its inch of growth is wavy and crimpy. I smile when I look at her, because I know that we will be getting our hair cut. Whenever Frances' hair gets too curly, we all get shaven. Its a sort of game, pinching each other, telling each other in three or four days we'll be newly bald soldiers.  
  
Martin is not nearly as dark as Frances. His skin is a dark tan. Thinking on it, I suppose you could say that his skin is a light brown. His eyes are brown too, and they're very large. Sometimes when he's afraid, I think I can see his thoughts in his eyes. I don't tell Dad this, because he'll give me more of the hot stuff through the wires, and I don't like that. Sometimes, when his hair gets in his eyes, his entire face is brown except for his lips. I find this funny, but I have never told anyone.  
  
I am counting the time in my head. I know that we have ten minute left. My troops are finished and Mikaele and I are having a lot of fun just ordering them around. Their missions are much more complicated than the ones that we are sent on. They can always hear what people are thinking and they are perfect and Mikaele and I never yell at them.  
  
Eight minutes to go, I glance up. I have no idea why I am glancing up, I don't need to, we have eight minutes, but it just seems like the thing to do right now. I see Martin and fighting; I hold my breath. Finally, he gets hit by Fran. He falls. I can't help it, I let out my breath in a soft "Martin."  
  
He looks up. Martin stands up and runs to me, telling me that its okay, he isn't hurt, and he'll never be hurt as long as I'm here to protect him. He knows this, he says, because I've told him that so many times. At this moment, I hope with my spirit that it will always be true.  
  
[/gray thoughts]  
  
I blinked my eyes. I knew that I wanted to cry, but I wanted to stop. I needed to stop, because I was his leader, I was his commander. Martin looked up at me, his eyes filled with tears. I couldn't help it, I reached up to his hair and said, "You bleached it."  
  
Martin grinned at me. Quickly reaching up to brush the tears out of his eyes, Martin said with a light air, "I think it looks good."  
  
"You look like a ruffian," I told him sternly. "I didn't raise you to be a ruffian." Zack laughed. I turned to him, frowning. "I don't see anything funny about this," I said decidedly. "Its not like Martin had any mother like I've had. I was his example, you ought to know that. This shows badly for me."  
  
Zack shook his head. "Ty-girl, you've got to let lose," he said. I looked at him in amazement. Zack telling me to let lose? That had to be some sort of glitch in him. "Martin's a grown boy."  
  
"Naw," Martin smiled down at me. I suddenly realized that he was a head taller than me. Even my brother was taller than me. I was never going to get a break. "Tyronica is still my commander."  
  
I almost whispered those words like I had whispered so long ago, I will always be your commander and I will always take care of you. I didn't, I held myself back. I wasn't certain why I held back, it seemed to be the correct thing to do at the moment. Maybe I should have let myself go. I will never know what would have happened, because of the mere fact that it will never happen.  
  
"Who're you, sir?" Martin looked up toward Zack with sudden interest. I suddenly felt very proud; of the polite way that Martin had addressed this stranger and of the mere fact that Zack was such an important personage.  
  
"This is X-5 330," I said, falling back so that they may grasp hands. Martin's eyes fairly popped out of his head as he shook Zack's hand. I had struck gold with that information.  
  
"The leader of the X-5s?" Martin turned to me with this question. I nodded my head slowly. Martin gave a small start and spoke hurriedly. "Sir, it is an honor to meet you. At home," -- both Zack and I inwardly flinched at the mention of Manticore as home -- "you were on top of the Soldier Efficiency list. Being born a year after your departure, it was a challenge to beat even your worst times."  
  
"How did you know of my times?" Zack asked. I grinned. I had been away from him for two years -- measly time, in the whole counting thing, because it didn't matter -- and he had already forgotten several things.  
  
"We are," I answered for Martin, "expert computer programmers and hackers. Have you forgotten?"  
  
Zack touched his forehead lightly, admitting that he had forgotten. "Its been to long, Ty-girl."  
  
"Whatever," I brushed off Zack's admittance that there had been a passage of time between our last visits. "Look, Martin, you said you knew where the others are?"  
  
"Yes, I've got all of their addresses here," Martin produced a small, spiral bound notebook, which I instantly snatched from his hands. On a second glance, I noticed how much larger his hands were than my own were. I had missed his grower larger than me; though he had always been larger than me, it hadn't been so obvious before.  
  
I flipped through the notebook, looking at the names. "They're all there," I said, happily taking into my brain the notes that Martin had written. "How did you get them? Do all of them have this information?"  
  
"No," Martin grinned wickedly. I suddenly got the feeling from him that he was very proud. "I'm the only one."  
  
"I sense there is something that you leave out, brother," I told him, trying to meet his eyes. "What happened?"  
  
Martin's smile was huge. I had never seen him smile like that. It was full of spirit that I was unfamiliar with. "Well," he started. I interrupted him.  
  
"Sorry," I said quickly. He stopped speaking and waited for me to begin. I felt instantly proud of myself. Martin was still ready to obey me and stop speaking just to let me speak. It felt so good to be back in charge. "I need information. This is the order in which I need it.  
  
"Number one. I thought you were all dead. I saw body bags being taken away. I didn't hear you, at all. Why didn't you come back to me? I suppose it wasn't the smartest thing you guys could have done, but I didn't search for you because I was so certain you were dead.  
  
"Number Two. Where did you all go after you escaped? How did you know to go there? And how did you find them all? If you had all scattered, it would have been one hell of a trek just to look for them, Martin.  
  
"Number three. Why hasn't Lezli this information. She was always so . . . bossy . . . I supposed I sort of expected her or Mikaele to be leading the group after if I wasn't there. What made them chose you?" I stopped speaking, looked at Martin, and nodded, ready for him to tell me the answers to my question.  



	3. Time

Here we go, people. Let' see . . . I want reviews, from all of you. I'm demanding reviews from . . . Jeanne . . . Cat . . . and Jaci . . . I mean it! You have to review or the next post, you get zilch. Hear that? ZILCH! Oh, what's that? Of course you'll review? Well, do it!!   
  
I know that Meg, Kathleen, 727, and Sue -- goodness, you guys are the best! -- always review to various stories. I think I've counted four/five total reviews on each chapter from those guys . . . (Meg, multiply by 3563424)  
  
FF.net people -- I have four reviews! What's wrong with you?! Its worse than my Being story . . .  
  
Okay, okay, here it is.   
  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~  
  
Part .03  
  
Martin took his time answering me. He sat down on the stone sidings of the flower beds and let out a slow breath.  
  
"Well," he began again, "we got away. I suppose those body bags you saw were the casualties from the fight. It was one hell of a fight, let me tell you, little sister. One hell of a fight. We took out five, apparently," Martin smiled. "We just all thought you'd been killed. I haven't the faintest idea who started the idea in our head. Perhaps it was Lezli . . ."  
  
"Perhaps," I said quietly, deep in my own thoughts.  
  
"It was very odd, feeling, just running . . . with no real place to go . . ." Martin looked down at his shoes. "But we just ran . . . all together . . . it was amazing, being free . . . having no real mission, just to run . . . Lezli jumping and twirling . . . Frances almost crying with happiness . . . It was amazing . . ."  
  
"You never came to look . . ." I whispered softly, letting the statement fall and settle in our stomachs; letting the statement nestle in the hurt in my chest, nestle in pain. I let it stab the rawness and the humility in Zack's venter. I let it nurse the embarrassment of abandoning me in Martin's own mind. I hadn't had the exhilaration of being with my brothers and sisters. I had been alone, worried, and afraid. Where had they been . . . having an amazing time? Well, good for them.  
  
"Lezli ordered us the other way. We were frightened, we were looking for a leader. At that moment, Lezli met the criteria," Martin looked me in the eye. God, boy, when did you turn from the soft-spoken thing of my memories into this perfect little man-ling? I wondered. How did you realize that Lezli didn't want to go, that it wasn't you who ran on? "Later on, once we were calmed, we questioned Lezli's authority. What right had she to order us other than you'd ordered us?"  
  
"The spell she held you under was broken," I murmured, thinking of the past, of those few times when Lezli had gone against me and how every time she had failed. If I had been able to view her thoughts, I'm sure I would have been able to hear the bitterness in them.  
  
"It was such a strong tie. We were so infatuated with her. She severed it when she stopped us from running in the direction you had gone," Martin methodically rubbed his fingers together and avoided my eyes; multitasking was a thing that ran in the family, then.  
  
"Deliberately?" I looked down at the book I was holding, then turned the pages until I came to a page labeled LEZLI in Martin's neat writing. I saw listed under location San Antonio, Texas.  
  
"Who knows the way Lezli's mind was working? She's an anomaly in the group," Martin said carelessly. Zack lifted his head sharply.  
  
"A nomolie?" he questioned. What in the world was he trying to say? An anomaly? Yes, Zack, yes.  
  
"Yeah, an abnormality within the group. She isn't the same as us," I explained, slightly puzzled. Zack's expression changed, and he nodded mutely.  
  
"So, how did you get all their information?" I returned to the subject on hand, feeling only slightly wary of Lezli without her presence.  
  
"A simple vote," Martin said, chuckling a bit. Seeing the look on my face, he elaborated. "We decided that we needed a leader -- after the silent understanding that Lezli was not exactly . . . what's that expression? . . . Oh yes, the cat's meow. Lezli hadn't the faintest idea," Martin smiled, "and so, when it was put up to a vote, immediately nominated me. I, of course, returned the favor and nominated Lezli . . . imagine her surprise when I won."  
  
"It was all that simple?" I could not believe Martin's words. Lezli's plan had just backfired, that's all? That seemed to be pretty odd . . . life would never cease to amaze me.  
  
"Simple as that. I was surprised . . . I sent them off to very specific cities, then I got a voicemail message center -- paid with the money I found in pockets! -- and went and gave them all the number. I told them they could move . . . but to always notify me . . . always to keep in touch. I started the notebook . . . because I wanted to always remember . . ." Martin gave a weak smile toward his sneaker tops. It sort of shot me, the way that Martin had grown up. I was proud of him, but I missed him so deeply it hurt.  
  
"Martin, I'm so proud of you," I told him simply. Martin glanced up from his shoes, so I continued. "You were everything I could ever hope you to be . . . where did you grow up? When did you grow up?" I reached over and gave him a huge hug.   
  
It was impulsive of me, but I needed to be impulsive, I had always yelled at Zack for being such a Facade King, but now I had started my own Facade Queen tradition. I needed to break away from that . . .  
  
Finally, we broke apart from the hug of three missing years. I smiled at him, picked up the notebook, then turned. "Time to go," I told Martin. "We'll get you a foster family . . . the other's are all in group homes, aren't they?" Martin nodded. "Then I'll go to them, make myself known, then relocate them within a foster family. For now, Martin, you'll come with me."  
  
"Wouldn't it be safe just to leave him, Ty?" Zack asked. I glanced up sharply into his face.  
  
"Of course not. The further apart we are, the more we lose each other . . . I don't want to lose them, Zack," I explained as patiently as I could.  
  
"You won't lose them Tyronica, not if you just leave them," Zack reached over and tugged the notebook out of my hands. "You have to make the plans first and then you have to get the others."  
  
"Zack -- I wont leave them again!" I cried. "Don't you understand how important this is to me?"  
  
"Tyronica, get a hold of yourself, you're a soldier, you're my good little soldier, remember?" Zack gave me a this look that I could read plain as day. Get-over-it-soldier.  
  
"I can't be a good little soldier if it goes against what I feel on the inside!" I told him.   
  
"Tyronica, leave him, arrange it, come back," Zack told me.  
  
"No, you don't understand. You're still at Manticore!" I stared him in the eyes. "Martin may still refer to Manticore as home," -- ("Hey," cried Martin.) -- "but that's because he's never had a home. You've got a home! Stop living in the past!"  
  
Zack reacted as if I had struck him. When he spoke, it was slowly, with each word spoken carefully. "Ty-girl, you're a soldier no matter what. A person second."  
  
"I thought you understood . . ." I said slowly. "Good-bye, Zack. I can't . . . you live too much in the past."  
  
"You used to tell me that you were a good soldier, Ty," Zack said, his eyes huge and round. Why the hell was he doing this? Acting like an idiot, he was. What had happened to the Zack who played Men in Black with me? Had that Zack died, along with that Ty? Two years is a long time. "What happened to you being a good soldier. Don't you remember what you told Mom?" I remembered, but I said nothing. "You're a good soldier, not a bad soldier. You said so. Now be a good soldier."  
  
"I was ten . . . don't you understand? There are differences . . . " I grabbed Martin's hand and the notebook, which Zack was still holding. "Better get out, before we leave. I'll be in contact with Mom and Dad, but don't try to contact me. I need time without someone who lives in the past."  
  
"Ty, you can't leave, you're a little girl," Zack told me, starting to laugh.  
  
"I was never a little girl, Zack. Don't you remember? I'm a soldier first," I crouched and jumped the stone wall, Martin coming right behind me, then jogged down the street. I could hear Zack's thoughts -- still in the garden -- he's angry at me for not being the soldier he thought I was.  
  
Well, he could fuck that. I wasn't a soldier girl without being a person first. He had it ass backwards. I came the closest I had ever come in three years to tears, and that made me angry. The anger blinked the tears away. The nerve of the so called Zack. He was Manticore, as I was I. I could forgive him that; but he wanted me to leave my family again. I wasn't going to do that.   
  
I had left my family twice before -- once it had been my siblings, once it had been Mom and Dad. I had left Mumma and Papa, but they didn't count as family, or did they. Thinking back on it, I felt no twinge of guilt that I had left them, as I did with the others. So they were not to be considered my family.  
  
Was Zack to be considered my third abandonment? It hurt to leave him, just as much as my brothers and sisters, just as much as Mom and Dad. I had left Zack to hopefully go to something better.  
  
I didn't want to leave him, but what choice did I have? Zack needed to stop living in the past. I needed to let myself stop relying on Zack. Even when I hadn't been with Zack, all those years in France, his words had been with me. I had been the soldier girl; Zack's wishes. Why in the hell had I listened to him? France would no longer be in my life.  
  
"Tyronica," I heard as I rounded the corner, "you're being an idiot."  
  
Sometimes, Zack, you are the idiot.  
  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~   
  
The town we stopped in was small. It was about two hundred miles away, but we had stopped after three hours of solid running, so it wasn't too bad a time. We'd left the city, then we'd gone along the countryside. It made me feel safer, to be away from the city. The checkpoints were no problem. I just entered the minds of the sector police and changed things. It was no big deal. I didn't think Martin figured out what I was doing, it was too busy trying to look normal.  
  
A few well picked pockets later, Martin and I were checked into some sleazy, two-bit hotel. It wasn't half bad; all you actually had to do was tell the rats which corner of the room was theirs and we were home free. The room had two beds and a television with lousy reception. We could have sprung for more, but why waste the whole bonding in a smelly room experience. I'd heard families used to do it all the time, before the pulse, on family vacations.  
  
I was sitting on my bed, watching at Martin turned down the covers on his, checking for bedbugs, when my left foot started to tremble.  
  
[gray thoughts]  
  
I'm ten, on the beach, walking along it, thinking about souls and death and wondering if the little kids that are pulling the chaperones around will run out of energy soon. The wind is going everywhere, spraying water all over me. I don't really like it, but I can handle. I'm built to handle. The wind is also picking up sand, making it fly into my face and make small cuts on my nose and lips.  
  
The water washing over the rocks is calming. The motion of the waves has an almost hypnotic effect on people. I glance up the beach. There are a lot of rich people here, but I don't care, all I want to do is think about where I'm going next. There aren't any more beach trips until next year. Its too cold here. I need south. Maybe Mexico would be a good idea. Marta is a pretty name . . . Tyronica just does not seem Latina babe, if you know what I mean.   
  
Seattle is a bitch of a city to explore. Maybe I'll stay here a couple of days, before I go, check it out. I want to check out the Space Needle. High places fascinate me. They're just so cool. I want to fly. Dad once said that if I'd learn quick enough, I'd fly. I think he was prodding me because SHE wanted him to get us moving quicker. Well, we moved so quick we disappeared, Madame X.  
  
Maybe I made us leave so quickly because of the whole soul thing. I mean, we don't have a soul, so where do we go after we die? The others didn't know why they were leaving, they would have died and gone, soulless, to a great emptiness.   
  
At the moment, I would be eating a warm dinner. I wouldn't have died. Of course, I have the vaguest idea of what's right, and I know living and letting my brothers and sisters die just because I'm hungry is wrong. I think that's what gives me a slight soul; a very slight soul.  
  
My left foot is starting to tremble. I don't have my backpack with me, which is bad, because it has my Trytophan in it. I can't find the teacher, whatever her name is, so I think I'll find a bimbo to help me . . . .  
  
[/gray thoughts] 


	4. Casual

As casually as I could, I leaned over my bed and asked, "Packing any meds, Martin?" At this moment, my head thought it a convenient to shake several times forward and backward. Martin crossed the room to the chair where he had deposited his jacket earlier. Digging in the pocket, he brought out a bottle of pills.  
  
"Here you go," Martin tossed me a couple of the pills.  
  
My total body shaking now, I sat as close to the headboard as I could, putting my back against it, then drew my legs up toward my chest. "Thanks," I told him through clenched teeth, taking the pills in a quick toss of the hand.  
  
Watching me as I jerked my body back and forth, Martin reached a finger in and took out another pill. Offering it to me, he stated, "Looks pretty bad."  
  
I shrugged. It was a pretty comical effect, because my whole body was shaking. Shrugging and shaking, the motion of my body was extremely odd. "No thanks, Martin," I rejected the pill. "I've had worse before. No biggie. Just tiring."  
  
Putting the pill back, Martin offered me one of his smiles. "Never had it that bad, but then again I was never hit hard by the seizures like some of the others."  
  
My body was slowly starting to cease its constant motion. I scooted down the bed and crawled under the covers. "Turn out the light and go on to bed," I told Martin. Obediently, he clicked the table lamp off and I heard him get into his bed. Scowling slightly at the darkness, I waited until my entire body had stopped its tremors before I let myself go to sleep.  
  
[gray thoughts]  
  
I'm nine, I'm hiding behind a large fern. Mikaele and I are practicing some morphing. At the moment, I am a large, fat beetle. Its fun to be a beetle. The floor is much closer and smells ever so much more interesting. Dad is in front of the fern, talking. I've been morphed for three minutes. I can't stay in morph longer than five or six, so I'm starting to move away down the hall.  
  
"If we kill those that are unsatisfactory," I hear dad begin, "what will happen to us? We'll lose an entire team. We can't do that. Not after the X-2 failure."  
  
A man answers. I know this mans voice and I don't like him. He talks to HER a lot and SHE scares us. SHE is not the person who loves us. Dad loves us, we can feel. At least, he likes us the most. He's the closest thing to love my brothers and sisters have. Its fun, to know we can always control Dad because of his love for us. "We'll clone the girl," he says. "We'll clone her and edit the barcode. We'll at an extra letter after her barcode. A, B, C, et cetera. Simple. The director said it was to be done."  
  
"You've already taken most of my kids, you can't think that you'll win this. We need the variety in the group. Just because the girl has advanced more quickly than her siblings doesn't mean they wont catch up. Think of it as a growth spurt, not everyone gets them at the same time," Dad sighs, I can hear him as I walk down the hall.  
  
"The others wont catch up," the man says. I'm almost to the door. Thank goodness this is a short hall, right? If it wasn't a short hall, I wouldn't make it.  
  
"We have six of the original forty left!" I hear Dad exclaim. He makes a noise of impatience. We all know the sound. Sometimes when we do something stupid, my brothers and sister will make the noise. "We cannot afford to lose more! Besides, if we clone the girl, she's still ten years older."  
  
"Remember that special gene," here, the man laughs. What gene? "We'll add it in, they'll age quickly, we take it out. We have a group of ten year olds, ready to learn."  
  
"They'll be ten in body, but what will they know?" Dad seems ready to counterattack everything that is thrown at him. "They'll be large babies, large infants. They'll not know how to eat, walk, or talk. Tell the director that as soon as she can invent something that gives the children the memories and knowledge of the cloned child, I will allow her to destroy an entire group. Before that, I will not. Do you understand?"  
  
"Yes, Colonel," I'm in the door, and I quickly morph into human form. As I rise rapidly from the floor, my dark black skin turning a softer gray, I make a sign for the others to close the door. They do so, then they wait until I am able to speak again.  
  
"Almost got caught," I giggle.  
  
[/gray thoughts]  
  
I woke up early the next morning. I wasn't not as tired as I was directly after the seizure, which was a good thing. I didn't need to be tired while I was going north. Martin was still asleep, so I went and took a shower. The water was cold, but I hadn't exactly expected it to be hot.  
  
As I was toweling off, I suddenly caught a glimpse of a half-memory. It was just a sound, a mark of impatience that was well-known to me. I sat down, wrapped in my towel, on the edge of the tub. There was more to the memory, but I couldn't recall exactly what it was. It was probably nothing, Lydecker had used that sound often enough.  
  
I dressed, rather disappointed in myself that I hadn't brought any of the pretty clothing that Mumma and Papa had bought me in France. I looked out the window, watching the clouds drift in the pink sky, fingering my jeans absentmindedly. They were nice enough, fashion jeans, they were called, but I wasn't certain how long they would last. My shirt, likewise, was made to look good, not to provide much protection against the elements. I would have to do some pocket borrowing and buy some new things.  
  
I heard Martin getting up. Glancing backwards, I was just able to see him disappear into the bathroom with a towel. That was the good thing about this hotel, they had many towels in the closet. I didn't know why, maybe this room had been a storage area for the towels while it was vacant.  
  
An hour later, we were on the road again. This time, I directed our little procession of two toward the North. When Martin asked where we were going, I merely shrugged in reply. I was getting too much like Zack. Not a good thing, but some habits die hard.  
  
The sector police out of California were very nosy. Martin was all for going a long way around them, through the words, but I put up a hand, stopping him. "Where you going, boy?" I asked. Shaking my head, I turned back to the sector police.  
  
"We'll just pass through now, we clear," I said, starting to walk. Martin looked a little askew until the sector police said:  
  
"Pass through now, all clear."  
  
I giggled. I liked this part of being psychic. It was fun being able to mess around with people's minds. They wouldn't realize it was happening if I was careful.  
  
"What was that?" Martin asked when we were a respectable distance away from the sector police.  
  
"Ancient Jedi Mind Trick," I told him, my face serious. Then I started laughing. "Goodness, that was so much fun. Most of the other sector police were lax and didn't care if we got through or not. This one cared about his job," I tapped my two index fingers and my middle fingers together. "Jolly good job, ole chap."  
  
"It was done so quickly! You didn't look at all as if you were meditating," Martin glanced back at the almost disappeared station. "How?"  
  
I gave him a pensive side-glance as we started jogging along the edge of the road. "Haven't you been practicing?" I asked him, biting my lower lip.  
  
"Of course, but I still meditate for at least half an hour before I get any results," Martin stopped for a few seconds to tie his shoe, then ran to catch up with me. "Frances is getting pretty good. She can stand while meditating and she'll be able to get into the mind and see what the person is thinking in five minutes! How far are you along?"  
  
Martin's question was met with silence. I had met and passed Frannie's level of ability almost three years ago. Why was it that I was able to go so much further along than my brothers and sisters? They had basically the same DNA as I had. I decided not to answer; Martin decided not to pursue the subject.  
  
[gray thoughts]  
  
"Mom!" I call out. I have just gotten home from school. Jaci and Meg are behind me, giggling and pushing each other. I run to my room with them and we put our backpacks on the hooks in my closet. "Mom! Dad!" I call again. I sneeze twice. I start to giggle with Jaci and Meg, because I know I looked funny when I sneezed.  
  
Bling walks into my room. "Hello, m'ladies," he says, handing us each a banana. "If you'll be so kind as to eat your snack at the table, I will fetch the King and Queen of the household's note."  
  
Jaci, Meg, and I start to pinch each other as we follow Bling out of my room. He hands me a note with Mom's scribbled message on it. It says GONE ON ONE OF DAD'S PROJECTS. FRIENDS CAN STAY THE NIGHT. I show it to Meg and Jaci.  
  
"Call Emy and Jeanne!" Jaci demands. I hold up a hand.  
  
"Wait, if we invite Emy and Jeanne, we'll have to invite Anna and Sue, so that means we'll have to sleep out in the living room and watch TV," I tell them, grinning. We run into my room to get phone book. "Where in the world is it?" I ask as we search the room. I can't find anything. Finally, without thinking, I just open my door and go into their heads to retrieve the phone numbers. It seems natural. "Got them," I say as I grab the phone off the table by my doorway and dial.  
  
Its only after I finish talking to the girls do I realize what I had done. For the first time, I didn't need to meditate to go into a head. I am so proud of myself.  
  
[/gray thoughts]  
  
We jogged most of the day. We didn't meet anymore sector police that posed as much of a danger. We didn't stop for lunch or breakfast at all, I wasn't hungry. I asked Martin a few times if he wanted to stop, but he just shook his head no. Don't get me wrong, after a few hours of solid running, we did stop and do some power resting. We just didn't stop and eat. We didn't see many places to eat, anyway.  
  
Around sunset, Martin asked again, "Why are we heading north?" This time, I decided to answer him.  
  
"I have family up north. Haven't seen them in two years, but they'll be glad to know I'm alive," I told him, looking at the trees on my right. They were so large, so tall, it looked as if civilization hadn't happened there. Of course, the road running through the middle of them was a big turn off. I wanted to go through the woods and just play, but I knew it wasn't a good idea. Might miss something important on the road.  
  
"Family?" Martin questioned, brushing his hair out of his eyes.  
  
"My Mom and Dad," I explained. "They got a place in Seattle."  
  
"Why aren't they on the loop of your whereabouts?" Martin was eyeing a squirrel with an appraising look; I decided the next town we came to would be our bunking grounds. Martin was probably at that very moment thinking of ways to roast that squirrel.  
  
"Had to leave. 'Deck was a little closer to getting me, so I went to France for a while," I pointed to a sign -- three more miles until the next town.  
  
"Gotcha. Keep your ass out of hot water," Martin sped up slightly. Smiling, I matched his pace. 


	5. Seattle

Here we go, next one. I was think 1M or 1F, but I decided 1M AND 1F! :P. How do you like it? Eh? Nice? Nice?!! Sue, I'm posting this to you, okies?  
  
Part .05  
  
Getting to Seattle took up five days in all. It would have taken us a lot less, but I was tired and made certain that we rested. It was odd, but I wasn't quite getting the energy back after my seizure. I didn't want a repeat experience on the seizure. It gave me a weird feeling. It was something new, but something I wasn't looking forward too.  
  
Martin and I stuffed ourselves with chicken in this little restaurant on the outskirts of Seattle. Paid for by the owner, because I conveniently tweaked a few minds. What was I to do with my superhuman powers if not use them to my advantage?   
  
I've never really understood the whole superhuman must use her powers to save humans. If you aren't human, why care about them? Its not as if they're the smartest things on the block, and they're real assholes, too. Why were Manticores created? Just to serve men. Well, I was one Manticore who was smarter. I was a maverick. I knew that men weren't worth saving.  
  
Okay, so not all men are bad. Some of them are men trying to save men. Those are always worth a look. Like Dad. Dad is definitely of the latter category.  
  
The problem with men is that there are so many different kinds of men. Who to trust? Who not to trust? I'm never sure.  
  
"Martin," I said as we were leaving the restaurant, "let's turn a right here." Walking briskly, I lead him the way that I remember, the way of the streets.  
  
[gray thoughts]  
  
I'm walking home from school with Sue. Her red hair is bouncing on her back and I am admiring it.  
  
"So," she says, "this is the first time they ever let you walk home by yourself?"  
  
"Yep," I say, "they trust me to know the way, to remember it," and I am proud they do.  
  
[/gray thoughts]  
  
"You sure we're going the right way?" Martin asked me as we jogged down the street. I almost turned at the next corner; it was that way to Jam Pony. If I kept the course that I was going along, we would end up at Foggle Towers. The only question was: Would Mom still be working at Jam Pony.  
  
"Yes," I told him for the third time, "I remember this city like the back of my hand. I remember this city like my bedroom."  
  
"You had a bedroom?" Martin asked me. I glanced at him, thinking of living in the group homes. We'd always shared a room there; no doubt, Martin had never had his own room to be for his lone self.  
  
"Yes, it was beautiful. The closet was almost a large as my bed; it was so cool. I remember, I remember the first night I ever really slept there. I was so happy to realize that it was my bed," I stared ahead rather absently. "I had been living there for maybe three days already, but I never thought about how this room was mine and mine alone. I was so proud, I kept it immaculate," I started smiling, thinking of my room. It had been great.  
  
"It sounds so wonderful. What was it like having a family?" Martin's voice was desperate, searching; almost pleading. It was nearly dark, the sun totally out of my view at the moment, only its most vigilant rays stayed in the air.  
  
"It was like waking up at Manticore and not having to get up all the time. It was like always getting enough to eat at dinnertime, not just the designated amount of food. It was like," I searched for the exact words, "it was like the first day out, over and over again."  
  
Rudely, a woman pushed me aside and muttered, in a heavy French accent, "Excuse me."  
  
[gray thoughts]  
  
"What's your name?" the woman is large, with white, uneven teeth. I look up at her, I know she's expecting me to answer in English. I know she expects me to be a dunce. I know she expects me to say basic things in French. I'll surprise her.  
  
"My name is Alison Marie," I say, looking her in the eye. My accent is perfect. I am perfect. She'll learn that soon enough. I'll be so perfect, she'll scream.  
  
[/gray thoughts]  
  
"You're inexcusable," I told her. The woman glanced back at me before hurrying on.  
  
"You're accent is very good," Martin seemed surprised.  
  
"Well, me, lived, France," I said as we went toward a large building. "Foggle Towers," I told him. It didn't look any different.  
  
Suddenly, I didn't want to go the plain way of doors. I wanted to go into my bedroom and stretch out across the bed, wrap myself in my blue comforter, then wake up when Mom or Dad squealed. Grinning, I made a few deft hand motions. Let's go up the 'scape, Martin, my body language was saying.  
  
Mutely, Martin and I made our way up the fire escape. It was old, but it didn't squeal and creak with us on it as it would have with a man. You have to hand it to men, they are the top at making noise. Take a walk in the woods with a man -- any normal boy or girl. He or she would scare off half of the wildlife before you got halfway in. Stupid men.  
  
Then, on my urging, we walked the ledge to the window facing the alleyway. Quietly, I slipped into the dark room. I heard Martin softly land beside me.  
  
A sob came to my throat, I held up a hand to stop Martin, then said, "This isn't my room." There were two beds. My eyes, quickly adjusting to the dim light, saw bookshelves where they should not have been; a large dollhouse that I had never had; two beds.  
  
They were twin beds, with a dresser between them. On the one nearest to me, I could make out a small figure, entire body covered by the blankets. The headboard read Qeleigh-Bronwynn in large, curly letters. Kelly . . . Bronwin . . . Celtic spellings of popular American names. Original meanings had to do with beauty . . . On the bottom, facing outwards from the bed, was the word Zesiro . . . African . . . the first twin . . .  
  
On a hunch, I looked at the footboard of the second bed, where another form was sleeping, much as the girl. Banji, it read, the second twin. The headboard had Roan-Sullivan in the same calligraphy as the Qeleigh-Bronwynn's bed. So this one was a boy. The meaning of this name had to do with beauty, too. Something about eyes, I couldn't remember. I wasn't as caught up on name meanings as I wanted to be; Mumma hadn't given me a lot of free time.  
  
"These children are loved," I breathed out softly. I was almost envious of these two children, with my room and the life I would never have. "Come on, they've moved."  
  
As I turned toward the window and Martin, something caught my eye. I saw several large, old books; well worn and frayed. Obviously older than the two small lumps in the bed, they caught my eye because I knew their form well.  
  
"Those are mine," I said quietly, reaching out to stroak the books. "Those are my books that I left behind." 


	6. What?

This is for JENDIGGITY at the sci fi nexus. :P  
  
  
Part .06  
  
"What?" Martin asked me. He seemed a little startled. "I thought they moved. I mean, you said that this wasn't your room."  
  
"It was, once, but now its their room. Those books, they're mine. Look . . ." I pointed, "that's my mustard stain . . . I was eating a ham sandwich and got it all over the third book's spine. I was so angry. I remember, I remember Mom and Dad said they'd buy me a new book . . . I was okay after a while, and didn't get a new one . . " I touched the spot lovingly, remembering.  
  
"So . . . they're still here . . ." Martin asked. I grinned suddenly.   
  
"Yes, and these are their children . . . they gave them awful names, poor dears," I looked down at the sleeping children. Qeleigh-Bronwynn's thumb stuck out from underneath the blanket.  
  
"So," Martin's voice was catious, "are these things your brother and sister?"  
  
I looked down at them. "I guess they are. You stay here and close that window; we don't know what will climb in after us. I'll go find Mom and Dad. They'll get you a home -- "  
  
"How?" Martin interrupted me. I grinned.  
  
"Dad has contacts," I told him evasivly.  
  
Slowly, I walked out of the room and went to Mom and Dad's room. The wall of the hallway, which had been decorated with fancy paintings when I left, along with the occasional picture that I had taken, was now filled with pictures of the sleeping forms. There were pictures of very young children indeed walking, running, riding tricylces. Shaking my head, I grinned at Manticore-lings in the pictures.  
  
They were pretty enough. They hard dark reddish-brown hair and deep blue eyes. They were of a very rosy complexion, with chubby cheeks and dimpled elbows. They were the childhood that I had never experience. Briskly, I walked away from the pictures and entered Mom and Dad's room.  
I stood there, looking at them sleeping together. Mom on her stomach, her face turned away from me. Dad's arms hugged her, the act of love in his sleep even more shocking to the senses than I remembered.  
  
I walked over to them. "Dad?" I said tentatively, suddenly afraid. "Dad's, it's me . . . Ty." I leaned over and touched his shoulder blades. He snapped up, waking Mom.  
  
"Who's there?" he said groggily, reaching for his glasses. I handed them to him.  
  
"Its me, Ty. Tyronica," I grinned, happy that I was Tyronica and not Alison Marie.  
  
Mom suddenly was hugging me, nearly squeezing the death out of me. "Tyronica!" she almost screamed.  
  
I grinned; then I sniffled. Quickly, I hugged her back. "Mom," I said, almost at a loss for words. "Dad . . . I'm back . . ." Dad leaned over and hugged me.  
  
"MOMMY!" I heard suddenly. Two voices started next. "MOMMY! There's someone in my room."  
  
Mom was out of the bed quicker than you can say Tryptophan. Uh oh . . . Martin . . . Dad was two seconds behind her, and I behind me.  
  
"Wait," I called . . . "it's just . . ."  
  
By the time I finished ever those two words, Mom was in the room glaring at Martin, her hand holding him up off the floor at his throat. He was in a corner -- literally -- and trying to look as small as possible.  
  
"Mom! That's Martin!" I cried. "He's why I'm back! They're alive! My brothers and sisters!"  
  
Mom slowly put Martin down. Dad went over to the two beds -- they showed the two redheads from the picture staring at their mother calmly -- and hugged both of the children. Odd, but Qeleigh-Bronwynn and Roan-Sullivan's hair were the same length.  
  
"What do you mean?" she asked. Martin slinked away from the corner and stood behind me.  
  
"I found out they were alive, I came back. I'm going to get them all. But I need your help. Martin needs a foster family. Not a group home," I said this last part firmly. Martin needed a family. He didn't need to stay in a group home. "I thought you could help."  
  
"Of course," Mom said immediatly. "Logan, you've got friends in that system."  
  
Dad looked up. "I can get him in tomorrow, the day after."  
  
"So," I asked, changing the subject, "you two get hitched."  
  
Mom and Dad grinned. No need for anything more.  
  
Staring at them, I saw the picture of the perfect family that I hadn't been able to create with them. The two adorable babies, smart and pretty. The marriage. The girl and boy equality . . . and dad was walking . . . how?  
  
"You're walking," I told him.  
  
Dad looked down, then up again. "Experimental proccedure. I'd say it was a success."  
  
"So what, you have an exoskeleton under your skin now?" I said, trying to break the tension that had suddenly grown. Suddenly, I turned my head to the right. I could hear him. He was coming up the street and he was going to get there in about two minutes. I didn't want to talk to him. "Gotta go get an apartment. If . . . someone comes, don't tell him I was here. I don't want to talk to him."  
  
Motioning to Martin, we exit through the window. 


	7. How?

Part .07  
  
"How we gonna get an apartment if we don't have money?" Martin asked a good half-a-block away. I turned to the right into an alleyway.  
  
"We're still in a good part of town, right? So, I just tear down a wall -- " I started.  
  
"A wall?" Martin prodded.  
  
"Well," I started to explain to him, "you know how you hear people . . . they're thinking and you hear their thoughts? Well, when it started getting loud . . . I just put walls. Its like the place where I hear the thoughts is a room. I have windows and doors. If I open the window, I can let people in and hear their thoughts. Doors too."  
  
"Ohhh," Martin said.  
  
"Anyway, I'll tear down a wall and listen for someone with money and an evil heart . . ." I grinned at Martin, who returned it amiably. "You know, the ones who are cops and such. Then, I just make that person walk to the bank and withdraw about ten thousand. It'll keep us okay for a few months, if we're good at it, and the person will never remember he gave the money to a little girl and boy in a certain alleyway."  
  
"We can do that? Don't you feel bad?" Martin asked.  
  
"What for? We're taking from the cops. They're the biggest crooks who've ever lived," I told him.  
  
Martin gave a weak shrug of his shoulders. "I guess so."  
  
I sat down cross-leggedly on the dirty ground, then began preparing myself to take down the wall. "Try to not think about anything. Think . . . valley-girl . . . airhead . . . bimbo . . ." I grinned, remembering my first meeting with Mom and Dad; bimbo indeed! "I'm going to need to mediate, its hard work taking down a wall."  
  
"Okay," Martin agreed.  
  
Calmly, I started my relaxing techniques. Slowly, I lessened my breathing. I closed my eyes and was in a dream state. Then, quickly, I tore down the wall.  
  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~  
  
What is described next is as told to me by Martin; I had no idea what was happening to me after I tore down the wall, only what I heard inside my own head.  
  
I screamed, loudly, shortly. I drew my legs up to my chest and after that one short scream, I just whimpered. My eyes were wide open, my arms clutching my legs closer to my bed, rocking back and forth. My jaw quivered, my breathing was ragged. I stopped blinking entirely, my eyes became almost all red.  
  
"Tyronica!" Martin cried in a hoarse stage whisper. I showed no sign that I had heard him. "Wake up, Ty," he called. Once again, I didn't answer him in any noticeable way.  
  
Martin made up his mind. Getting off the floor in a leap, he ran as quickly as he could back to Foggle Towers. He told me later on that he was never so glad in his life that he was a Manticore; his memory came in use as he navigated the two blocks it was to the apartment building.  
  
Bursting into the apartment, he came upon Mom, Dad, and Zack speaking, along with the two children.  
  
"Something's wrong with Tyronica," he told them, breathless from worry. Mom and Zack went to the door, waiting for him to lead them to me, while Dad gathered up the babies in his arms and took them to their room.  
  
Martin said that later he was surprised that Manticore didn't come crashing down on them as the three of them ran top speed down the streets. He told me that he was certain that they were running so quickly that humans wouldn't have been able to see much more than a blur.  
  
They found me exactly where Martin had left me, in a miserable heap of pain, whimpering. Wordlessly, Mom gathered me up. 


	8. Describe

Here we go, people. The stuff without the . . . are HER honest thoughts.  
  
Part .08  
  
As next described is as experienced by me. It is as I remember it, as clearly as I can. Sometimes it gets distorted, but I can still tell you about it.  
  
When I tore down the wall, immediately I got hit with the image of a dark hair girl playing with a orange cat. Suddenly, I got the image pushed aside by an image of a Chinese man and woman, hugging tightly.  
  
. . . WE'VE GOT TO KEEP WALKING. JAMIE IS SLOWING US DOWN. STUPID BOY IS . . .   
  
. . . SOMETIMES I WISH THAT I COULD JUST WRING HER NECK AND . . .   
  
. . . AND THEN I'LL TELL HER ABOUT THE TIME . . .   
  
. . . --RE THE BEST IN TH-- . . . .  
  
. . . A bright red car stopping at a stop-light. It went on in and got hit on the side by a large SUV.  
  
. . . JACK'LL BE ANGRY THAT I GOT THIS NEW DR-- . . . .  
  
. . . A woman drowning, a man with a gun staring down at her . . .   
  
. . . DESTROY EYES . . .  
  
. . . A bunch of children playing hide and seek, with a dead man as base . . .  
  
. . . REPORTS ARE BAD FOR BUSINESS . . .  
  
. . . A picture of a hand . . . .  
  
. . . I . . .  
  
. . . AND THEN HE WILL . . .  
  
. . . SCIENCE TEST . . .   
  
. . . A picture of a brick building floated in before being ripped away, replaced by that of an airplane taking off . . .  
  
. . . MOM WILL . . .  
  
. . . RUDIYE AND TESS ARE . . .   
  
. . . HATE THIS FOG . . .   
  
. . . WHAT'S UP WITH THAT . . .  
  
. . . TOUCH IT . . .  
  
. . . I saw an image of a small huddle of clothing, shivering, or shaking . . .  
  
. . . IF IT DIES, ITS NOT MY FAULT . . .  
  
. . . THAT BOY OVER THERE LOOKS GOOD ENOUGH . . .  
  
. . . TRYING TO GET . . .   
  
. . . BREAD AND JAM, BREAD AND JAM, BREAD AND JAM . . .  
  
. . . A picture of an anxious face saying something flirted across my vision . . .  
  
. . . THIS LITTLE PIGGY . . .  
  
. . . CRAZY IN ALA . . .  
  
Please, somebody, wouldn't you let this stop? I want this to stop. It hurts so much. Put the wall back up. There, its back up  
  
. . . CHIMAR . . .  
  
. . . HATE THEM, I MEAN, COME ON, HOW AWF . . .  
  
. . . DISSECT FROG . . .  
  
. . . AFTERSHAVE BEFORE PULSE . . .  
  
. . . --ETICS . . .  
  
. . . DOG OR A CAT OR MAYBE A BIR-- . . .  
  
. . . I see a cage, with a large parrot in it . . .  
  
. . . PAINTING A PICTURE IN SCHO-- . . .  
  
. . . EENY MEENIE MINIE . . .  
  
. . . EX . . .  
  
. . . GOOGLE . . .  
  
. . . DAD AND MOM . . .  
  
. . . PICKET LINE . . .  
  
. . . I saw people walking, holding signs. Teachers were asking for more money?  
  
. . . BICICYLES ARE NEAT BECAUSE . . .  
  
. . . SARAH HASN'T . . .  
  
. . . PENCIL SHARPENER . . .  
  
. . . I saw a cylinder, gray box . . .  
  
. . . COLD RIGHT . . .  
  
. . . DOGFOOD IS . . .  
  
. . . TOOTHPASTE . . .  
  
. . . COMPU- . . .  
  
. . . a PC, not a Macintosh.  
  
. . . FORD . . .  
  
. . . BOOKS ON . . .   
  
. . . MAMA, MAMA, MAMA . . .   
  
. . . TYRONICA? . . .  
  
. . . I saw that same picture I saw before, when I saw an image of a small huddle of clothing, shivering, or shaking . . . is that me?  
  
. . . SHE IS HURT . . .   
  
. . . TYRONICA? . . .  
  
. . . POOR CHILD . . .  
  
. . . racing car, gray, woman in dark glasses . . .   
  
. . . IT ISN'T AS IF . . .  
  
. . . man with many sheep following him . . .  
  
. . . woman smoking, being pointed toward a section labled "smoking" . . .  
  
. . . BAXTER FERMWAL . . .  
  
. . . a large machine that looks like a scanner . . .   
  
. . . KIMBERLY ROBERTS SUCKS . . .  
  
. . . a motorcycle . . .  
  
. . . SAN FRANCISCO IS FOGGY . . .  
  
. . . a picture of the Golden Gate Bridge . . .  
  
. . . SOMEWHERE, OVER THE RAINBOW . . .  
  
Why wouldn't it stop? Please stop, it hurts.  
  
. . . THERE IS NO GOD, ONLY THE GOVERNMENT . . . 


	9. Waking

Dudes, did you think I'd leave you hanging? Ha!!  
  
Part .09  
  
I remember waking up in a very large bed. The room was unfamiliar to me and I was scared. I remember thinking, "I've been here before," and then shaking my head, because I had not been there before, I was certain of it. I did have this very fleeting . . . memory . . . of being in the room, with doctors around me holding needles. Why did I have that image?  
  
I tried sitting up, but I was tied down; I couldn't even lift my head because my entire body was strapped to the bed I was very afraid, right then and there, so I started to pull at my restraints. Fear lent me adrenaline, which gave me and idea. I started manipulating myself into getting a lot of adrenaline. I wasn't quite sure what would happen to my heart if I gave myself too much, but I need to get out of the straps.  
  
Pushing against the pieces that held me down, I lifted my arms until I was sure the straps were cutting in. Finally, they broke. I lifted my arms to my face. They were bruised, but it looked to be minor and I didn't feel anything majorly hurting. I unbuckled the straps that held my neck. After that, I then undid the ones that held my waist, so I could sit up.  
  
When I sat up, I looked around the room. My heart still pumping wildly from the adrenaline, I saw laying on another bed a dark head; Martin. Giving a silent cry, I unfastened all other restraints that held me in and then leapt off of my bed.  
  
"Martin," I said in a hoarse stage-whisper. He turns and I notice that the lamplight on his face makes it look as if he's walking towards the sun.  
  
{vivid thoughts}  
  
"Kill him, he's a danger to us," he says.  
  
"No, he isn't; he's just a boy," I say.  
  
"Your loss, not mine," he says, then walks on, leaving me alone. I go back to my date, idly watching the boy, known as PA1-169, walk away from Colorado into the sunset. It seems a little ironic to me that I let him go, but I don't need them and I certainly never help Don Lydecker if I can help it.  
  
{/vivid thoughts}  
  
What had just happened?  
  
"Ty," Martin cried as he leapt up. He wasn't restrained. "You're awake! We have been so worried -- "  
  
Into the room burst four people. Mom and Dad, Original Cindy -- who I hadn't seen for two years! -- and Zack. I glanced from Mom, Dad, and Cindy. They all run to me, all jabbering excited. Original Cindy screeches above the clatter, "Ya'll sound like a bunch of chickens in a farmyard!"  
  
{vivid thoughts}  
  
Oh, look at the pretty chickens. They are so chatter-y. I wonder if Papa will let me pick them up. Oh, look at the dogs, they are so gruff sounding. Mama never did tell me if I was to stay here. Maybe I will. I like this place.  
  
{/vivid thoughts}  
  
I didn't remember that. Yes, I did . . . I remembered it, but it wasn't me remembering it . . . how could I remember it as if I had been there. I started shaking. It wasn't me that was thinking, yet it was. It just wasn't my thoughts.  
  
"You okay, baby?" Mom moved closer toward me. I looked up. I didn't want to speak . . . I was filing away memories, I realized, but I couldn't figure out why I was because I've always filed away my memories as soon as I've received them.  
  
I started taking deep breaths, shaky ones. "These aren't mine," I whispered.  
  
{vivid thoughts}  
  
"Hey, Brat-girl!" I yell to my younger sister. She ignores me. Figures. "Katie, hand me that book, *please,*" I add this last part sarcastically. She looks up at me, sighs, then leans over and gets the book off of my bed then tosses it to me. "I said hand," I say by way of thanks.  
  
"You're a bitch, Karen," she says without looking up.  
  
So?  
  
{/vivid thoughts}  
  
I wasn't Karen. I was Tyronica. I didn't have a sister named Katie, I had never had a sister named Katie. I was Tyronica and the only 'K' named sibling I had had was Kyle, and he was long dead. Hell, Chlori, even, was my only 'C' named sister . . .  
  
"These aren't mine," I repeated. I hoped I wouldn't be washed over with another memory. They were vivid, hateful things, full of feelings and meanings that I didn't remember. Actually I did remember. I had never remembered them before.  
  
{vivid thoughts}  
  
"Hey, Charlie-boy, do you remember when we were snowed in at the cabin in Montana? You were about three . . ." my dad starts.  
  
"No, Daddy," I whine. "I don't remember that far back. I was a *baby* then, Daddy."  
  
Daddy laughs. "Of course, Charlie-boy, my mistake."  
  
{/vivid thoughts}  
  
"STOP!" I screamed to myself, loudly. "I AM NOT CHARLIE!" I looked up. Mom and Dad were looking at me, but images were flying past my face, filing themselves into my cabinets. "STOP! THESE ARE NOT MINE!"  
  
"Ty-girl, what's wrong?" Dad asked. Wait? Was that a memory or was it real life? I was Charlie-boy . . . wait, I was Ty-girl . . . I needed the memories to stop . . .  
  
"They aren't mine, Dad," I told him, in as normal a voice as I possibly could master at the moment.  
  
"Tyron, what aren't yours?" Original Cindy asked me. What was she talking about? The car that was driving down the road, yes, of course, that was my car. Wait, no it wasn't. That's not what she was talking about.  
  
"The memories . . . they're everywhere . . . I can't stop them . . ." I whimpered, suddenly looking at her towering over me, her brown eyes huge.  
  
"What memories, Ron?" Martin asked me.  
  
"These memories in my head that are filing!" I screamed out, trying to make them understand. "They're filing away and I can remember them but I haven't experienced them before!"  
  
"What?" Mom pressed.  
  
I took a deep breath. "I've got memories and thoughts that aren't mine in my head. I . . . I remember things and then I realize that it isn't me in the memories, even though its me . . . how can I explain myself?"  
  
I heard a computerized voice, "What happened to make you pass out?" I glanced up. A man in a wheelchair, not at all like Dad's when he was still in his chair, was in the hallway. I recognized Sebastian, a man who knew great of conspiracies.  
  
I slowly tried to sort through the faux memories to get to my real ones. Then I found my mistake and almost laughed with bitterness. 


	10. Broken

.10.htm.

Okay, okay, here it is. I expect my chapters on this to be longer. Just ask Jaci, she read my outline up to chapter nineteen -- minus a bit of a plot I sort of forgot to include -- and she said it was a novel. I just need my ideas written down or I forget them really quickly! So, anyway, blah blah woof woof, here it is.  
  
Part .10  
  
"I broke the damn wall down," I told them, "and all the thoughts of the people in my area of hearing flooded me . . ."  
  
Sebastian started almost at once. "Tyronica, why didn't you think it through? How many times have I heard you complain about the amount of thoughts you could hear when you opened a window, not to mention a door?"  
  
I took a ragged breath, trying to suppress a memory that was trying to flood forth. "I'm sorry," I told them.  
  
Dad broke in. "You were out for three days." I glanced around at the group surrounding me; they all acknowledged the fact I had been out for such a long period of time. My God, that was surprising. "Don't ever do it again."  
  
"I didn't think," I admitted.  
  
{vivid thoughts}  
  
"Annelise! You never think! Why can't you ever stop to think?!" Mother asks me.  
  
I shrug. "I didn't think, Mother," I tell her quietly.  
  
{/vivid thoughts}  
  
"You'll never make that mistake again," Zack interjected. I purposely made no response to his first comment of the day.  
  
"Well," Mom said, "you've got to explain a bit more these memories you keep babbling about. Even when you were asleep, you were thrashing. First, Ty, you were rigid and we could barely open you. Then, you started thrashing on the second day. Finally, about two hours ago, you stopped. We all just stepped out for a breather when Martin said your name."  
  
"Its just like thinking back when I was three and visiting my grandparents on a farm. I see everything for the first time," I told them.  
  
"You've never done that, Ron," Dad says.  
  
"Exactly!" I exclaimed vehemently. "That's what its like!" I would be there but it wasn't me. "I can't tell what's real and not, sometimes, because I get so scared. I get worried I'm not in real time or in real memories."  
  
"Damn, girl, you got some weird ass way of describing it," Original Cindy said. I shot her a glance. It was the Goddamned truth, did she believe me? "Original Cindy ain't saying nothing 'ginst ya story, boo, 'cuz she knows you ain't the type to tell lies, but it sounds like you have one helluva time just thinking things through." Exactly, Cindy, exactly.  
  
~ ~ ~   
  
Mom and Dad were pretty cool with the fact that I needed a lot of time alone to sort out my rooms and make certain that all of my walls didn't have holes in them. I was pretty worried about hearing thoughts and things; I built my walls so strongly that even Zack couldn't penetrate them.  
  
I had more windows than originally built, though they had strong shutters, and quite a few less doors. If you can see my mind as I can see it, you can imagine how much more secure I felt.  
  
It took me three days to even get comfortable with the thoughts in my head. I started sorting them into a new room, large in space, whenever I saw one flirting across my mind's eye. It was annoying, having to sort through my memories, and I didn't much enjoy the task.  
  
Isn't it amazing how many thoughts one can store? I was quite surprised, myself, when I was going through my head, at the sheer number of memories and ideas that were tucked away. I was extremely lucky in the fact that I had stored most of my memories already, so I needn't have gone through sorting all of my previous memories. It actually made my job of hunting down foreign memories a bit.  
  
I tended to stay away from others while I was sorting, preferring to spend my entire time in mediation, so that I didn't absorb any new memories.  
  
I didn't eat much. Though Mom did make me stop to eat at least two meals a day, I picked at my food more than I ingested it.  
  
~ ~ ~  
  
Martin showed me his book about five days after I "woke up" in Sebastian's house. It was filled with information, written in Martin's neat hand, across the pages.  
  
Dad was looking over my shoulder as I flipped through the pages, excitedly thinking about my siblings of whom the pages where written about, when he asked me a question.  
  
"Er, Ty," he said, "why is it written in that odd script?"  
  
I glanced down at the page upon which I was reading. On it were lines, curves, and dots, arranged in various ways on the paper.  
  
"Oh," I said.  
  
[gray thoughts]  
  
"Tie-raw-nick-ka," Arsaces whispers hoarsely into my ear, "wake up." I don't bother to correct him by saying that my name is Ter-raw-nick-ka because my nickname is Ty and it doesn't make much sense and I also know that he is just saying that to get on my nerve. My Dad is silly, nicknaming me Ty. I don't say Ter-raw-nick-ka much anymore, myself, anyway, which causes me to think. Have I changed my name? Oh well, it is just a name.  
  
I bounce out of bed, giggling. At age seven, I am decidedly smaller than my brother. He is always bouncing on my bed, early in the morning, waking me up. I punch him lightly in the arm while I make certain that I am dressed correctly.  
  
"Hey, Arsie, stop," I say tiredly. "We're going out on a skirmish today, so help me get everybody up, will you?"  
  
Arsaces looks over his shoulder. I look there too. Everyone is already up. I groan; I am the last one to be woken, which means that I will have to make everybody's bed. This is just great.  
  
After I smooth down the covers, I take my place in line and walk the others to breakfast. We are fairly early, as usual, so we get a prime table. Eating our food quickly, we rush to the briefing room, where we will be told of our skirmish.  
  
"I'm telling you, they aren't as superb as the X-5s," I hear a man telling another as we walked down the hall, "but they have the potential. If they can morph, those MA-1s will be able to take on the form of a perfect soldier. Hell, they might be able to blend and create their own . . . "  
  
We enter the room and close the door. Andrea rolls her eyes and gives me a soft smile. We have seen the reports on the MA-1s; the man speaking is giving the other a crock of shit and we all know it.  
  
I make certain that the others were lined up; we must always be perfect soldiers and appear as we must always be. A man walks in; menial and unimportant, he is just here to assign us our orders. With a fleeting thought, I feel that the man is envious of our group. It seems that we actually have higher rankings than he does. We do?  
  
Okay, out the door, complete the mission, come back in thirty-six minutes. Its simple. The mission is a five minute thing with Lezli and myself, experts on the scaling of walls. We will have thirty-one minutes of free time.  
  
The mission completed, we sit down and talk. There is nothing to do, so Alan and I start scratching on the bark of an old, gnarled tree.  
  
"Hey," Ally says, "why don't we make our own letter system, one that is more difficult for a Manticore than Chinese is to an American norm?"  
  
I giggle. This is an amusing thought. Norms think that they are so smart; we are far more intelligent than any norm that I have ever had the pleasure of meeting. I think that maybe we are more intelligent than any norm that has ever been birthed on this world.  
  
"Sure," I say, "and let's not forget to write it right to left instead of left to right, just to confuse people."  
  
Lezli topples off the log in a fit of laughter; Mikaele has to pull her up.  
  
[/gray thoughts]  
  
Martin piped up before I had the chance. "Its our code, we made it when we were younger. I thought it was better to write in than Chinese, Hebrew, or ancient Egyptian; people know those. Only seven of us ever knew about this."  
  
I smiled ruefully. It was true, I had to admit. Andrea, though, was dead and buried, along with every secret we had ever shared with her.  
  
Dad nodded. "Could you teach it to me?" he asked. I looked at Martin and shrugged.  
  
"Sure," I nodded toward Dad. I leaned across the desk and got my notebook. I opened it up to the first leaf and started writing down the alphabet. "We we have a few extra letters. See, here, this is in place of p-h . . . this is in place of s-h . . . this is in place of c-h . . . this is in place of g-h . . . lots of the f sounds . . . Oh, this one is the s-t in our alphabet . . . this is the i-n-g . . . this is the e-d . . . I think that's it . . . it makes a lot more sense when you're writing it out . . . Our English alphabet really isn't the basis of this . . ."  
  
"I'll say," Dad said, laughing. "It looks difficult."  
  
"Oh, it isn't, not at all!" I told him quickly. It was ever so much easier just to write out than one might believe.  
  
"Never mind, Ty-girl, I would have to spend time on this, and I've got to take Qelbee and Roan-Sullivan to the park," Dad said. I scowled darkly at the twins as I tore up the paper. Dad looked at me as I ripped it.  
  
"Don't want anyone to be able to read this, it might be a key to deciphering the locations," I said. It was so obvious that I turned away in disgust. Dad laughed it off and went out with the kids.  
  
I had found out that day that Qeleigh-Bronwynn Zesiro was the poor little girl's name. Qeleigh-Bronwynn as the first name, Zesiro as the middle. Following form, Roan-Sullivan Banji was named. Luckily, I could say Roan-Sullivan and admire how pretty it was. Qeleigh-Bronwynn had to grow on you.  
  
"Martin," I said as the car started outside the door, "I need a contact number."  
  
Martin looked up at me. He had returned to the couch where he'd been watching the news, but now he walked toward me again. He gait was slow, even, perfectly symmetrical with itself.  
  
"You can just use the one that I used," he told me. I looked at him thoughtfully. The idea has occurred to me, but I wasn't used to having somebody follow me blindly. It was sort of comforting, having my brother trust me so deeply.  
  
"True," I told him. "Would you mind handing over the number and password?" Without hesitating, Martin wrote down the information. "Where's my Mom?"  
  
"She's at the store," he told me. The store? We were camped at Sebastian's, why was she shopping for him?  
  
"We're home alone," I said. I was rather miffed by the thought. Hadn't they missed me at all? Sure, they hadn't actually left me in about five days, but it was rather disturbing to have them both run away from home as soon as I was able to be out and about. Sebastian wasn't anywhere to be seen, either. It was his place, didn't he want to make certain that we didn't lift anything?  
  
Martin didn't answer me, just handed me the phone. I quickly punched the numbers and waited while the monotonous mechanical recording took me through the procedure of checking my messages. Yadda yadda yadda, press pound, two, then the pin number.  
  
No new messages. That was a good thing, wasn't it?  
  
I sat down moodily on the couch, disappointed that I hadn't been able to hear the voice of at least one of my siblings. Martin sat down next to me and began watching the news. Sebastian had one killer access code; he actually got some channels that I had never seen before.  
  
True, when I was younger, I watched mainly the early morning programs and cartoons, but I had searched after school a few times for some interesting stuff and nothing had come up. Obviously, Dad hadn't bothered to tell me there was an access code you needed, which was really pissy of him.  
  
I got bored of the news pretty early, so I went exploring in Sebastian's house. I knew it pretty well, having not only been up and about for two days but having come to Sebastian's house with Dad once when I was ten and still very nosy. I hadn't outgrown that nosiness at all.  
  
I found my way into the computer room, where there was a really nice computer up against the far wall. I wanted to sit down, but I knew how touchy Dad was about his computer and figured that Sebastian would be about as twice as touchy, me not being family and all.  
  
After about two minutes, Sebastian came into the room.  
  
"Would you like a go?" he asked me. Eagerly, I nodded in an affirmative fashion. "Go on ahead. Just don't change anything unless you ask me."  
  
I sat down in the chair and began typing away. I was pretty interested in the conspiracy theories that he had. Most of them were old news to me, having worked on typing up some of the more secret documents at Manticore, but some of it was pretty interesting. I fixed a few of the factually incorrect statements for him -- with his permission of course -- and read away happily until Dad came.  
  
"I see you found the computer," he said as he popped his head in the room. Roan-Sullivan, affixed solidly to Dad's leg, was trying to eat his sister's hair in a most uncharming manner.  
  
"I'm attracted to them like metal to a magnet," I told him solidly. I loved computers; I had loved them ever since I was young and taken into the room to learn basic typing. I glanced down at my fingers. They traveled the keyboard ever so much better than when I was eight and first learning, with Ally and Andrea looking dubiously at the keyboards.  
  
"I'll bet you are," he said amiably.  
  
"Dad," I said after a pause, "got any information on parents for Martin?"  
  
Dad looked at me solidly. I knew that he was aware that I didn't want to let Martin go so early, but he and I both knew that uprooting Martin after he got comfortable in Seattle would be one of the stupidest things imaginable.  
  
"Yeah," he said quietly. I looked at the wall behind his head, careful not to make eye contact. "Actually," he continued, "it's one of my contacts. You know televisions of course," he grinned. "Well, there is this chip that is in every one of those that Shamal Prasad makes. Conveniently, he is the only one that manufactures it in North America. Even more conveniently, I went to college with him. In the past two years, he has started adding a receptor the the chips. Its one line of coding that allows my broadcasts to go directly to the television set . . ."  
  
"It makes your hacking easier?" I asked.  
  
"Exactly," he agreed. "Anyway, Ty, he's loaded. He's also a widower with a boy about twelve or thirteen and looking for -- "  
  
" -- a foster son?" I broke in. It was the logical ending to that sentence.  
  
"No, an adoptive son. That is the good thing about it," Dad told me. I digested the information. It was a very good thing for Martin, a very good thing. It was a good thing, it was.  
  
"So, he's a nice guy?" I asked, carefully trying to count the bumps of paint on the wall. There were quite a few, as it turned out.  
  
Dad smiled softly. "Yes, Ty. I trust him with my life. He's a very good father, too. He spoils Andrew a bit, but it is only to be expected."  
  
"Where is he?" I bit my tongue, expecting Oregon or even California. I was quite lucky in the respect, Dad said neither.  
  
"Florida." So far away, Dad. It was so far away.  
  
I nodded. "Right, then, so shall we get ready? I expect you've spoken with Mr. Prasad already?"  
  
"Yes, all I have to do is arrange a plane trip. If you want, you could go with him," Dad gave me a look which meant a lot more than any one person could imagine.  
  
~ ~ ~   
  
The plane trip two days later was fairly enjoyable. Martin and I watched a few on-plane movies and goofed off a bunch. In other words, we had as much fun as we could before we landed in Florida.  
  
After we landed, I called a taxi and gave them Shamal Prasad's address. Once we got outside the house, I rang the doorbell.  
  
"Be good, Martin. If you don't like it here, you can always call me. Always," I looked him in the eye to enforce my point.  
  
As the door was opened, he nodded. I handed him the papers and we walked into the entry hall. It was nice; hardwood flooring, impeccably white walls, the whole she bang.  
  
After the quick, quiet interview with Mr. Prasad, I walked out of the house. At the first pay phone I got to, I called Dad and told him everything was successful. Then I pick pocketed my way into a cyber cafe and logged onto a web site.  
  
I changed the pin number on the voice mail. 


	11. Home

.11

A/N -- I know this has been forever in coming, but with the slowing of reviews, I don't know if people actually like this. I know that T2 isn't the most exciting thing in the world, but I've got several more children to (Alan, Lezli, Mikaele, Frances!) and I don't know if I can do it. I mean, geeze, I don't the next kid for three more chapters (you can count on that, it's all written out in my outline).   
  
T3 and T4 are much better than T2 . . . T0-T3 are actually setters for T4 . . . ::giggles:: I just drank a quarter glass of Irish Cream Liquor. Yummi. Anyway, so, keep on. This one isn't my best chapter, but it has a TON of information that I had a bunch of fun making up. Ask Jaci, I am the QUEEN of lists. My lists are like perfect.**  
  
Part. 12  
**  
Getting home was easier than I would think it to be. I do not remember getting harrassed by the sector police. Maybe I did. I do remember getting lost in my thoughts, my memories, of Martin and my other siblings.  
  
When I was younger, I was always with them. We were the Ultimate. It was always 413, 923, 169, 968, 032, and 666. It was always Lezli, Mikaele, Martin, Frances, Alan, and Tyronica. We were happy, truely happy, to be together. When had it gotten to the point where I was willing to give it up?  
  
I was willing to give it up; willing to give it up save their lives. Why in the hell did I feel so bitter about it? Why in the hell did I feel so pissed off that I had to drop Martin off?  
  
Come on, I mean, I hadn't seen him for three years, nearly four, and it wasn't like we hadn't caught up. Hell, Martin and I had talked for hours. I'd even gotten the little bugger to stop refering to Manticore as home. I know that Mom and Dad were happy that way, and I liked keeping Mom and Dad happy.  
  
_{vivid thoughts}_  
  
the man turns to me. I look at him codly. Why in the hell is he using my real name, the slimeball? Lovingly, I fingered the gun that was in the pockets of my slacks. Good gun, I think idly.  
  
my voice is void of emotion. The man, David, squirms. Let the little bastard squirm.  
  
We have the footage from the Ansemblo shootings.  
  
  
  
_{/vivid thoughts}_  
  
I shook my head, trying to get the images out of it. For just a moment, I pondered the words that had gone through so quickly, then, sighing, I wearily placed it in a large cabinet already a quarter of the way filled with memories that weren't mine.  
  
I had decided, early, that as soon as one of the memories that weren't mine suddenly surfaced, I would attack and conquor; the memory would be filed away for later reference. Maybe, if I was ever stuck in the middle of no where, I would file them away into men, women, boy, and girl memories, for easier access. Or, maybe, I would file the memories into the drawers as squabble, political, family . . . there were so many ways to file them . . .  
  
I sat up, bored with my thoughts, and wandered aimlessly around my house. There was nothing really in it to amuse me . . . nothing, except, Martin's book . . . I hastily went to my desk, looking for the small notebook that he had given me, where I had carefully copied down information on my siblings.  
  
I hadn't really read what I was writing . . . I had been rushing, not seeing the words, but just the letters . . . it was as if I had been a young child copying from a book. I hadn't been reading, I had been looking at pictures.  
  
Flipping it open, I looked at the page and started reading, really reading, the words throwing themselves off of the page. It was no longer, Oh-this-is-Miki's-page. It was Miki's life, written down on one tiny page . . .  
  


**MIKAELE**  


  
**Barcode**: 436798137**923  
**  
**Given name**: Mikaele Brooks  
  
**Height**: 5'2"  
  
**Weight**: 98  
  
**Eyes**: Light Blue  
  
**Hair**: Light Blonde  
**  
Birthdate**: October 17, 2010  
  
**Location**: Riverheights Group Home # 89, New Hamshire  
  
**School**: Parkside Intermediate School  
  
**GPA**: 4.0; 4.0; 4.0; 4.0 (last four quarters)  
  
**General Accessment**: Very large group home, with three hundred other students. Not the cleanest of the homes that I have visited. Seems very dedicated about school work, very concentrated on excelling. Top grades, afterschool activities.  
  
Reading between the lines, I could see Mikaele's character all over the page. She was always, I remembered, a work fanatic. I could see her working endlessly on her home studies . . . it was amusing to say the least.  
  
She lived in New Hampsire . . . a little close to New Jersey for me, but what could I say? It wasn't my fault that she picked it, it wasn't her fault if she liked it there. Maybe she didn't like it there . . .  
  
_{vivid thoughts}_  
  
How much? I ask. I'm wearing a tight, red dress. Red is always the best to wear when you're on a job; the blood don't show up real good and you can make a clean get away. Who would suspect a broad with a nice figure, walking away in a hot little number?  
  
Fifty G, no more, Little Pup shifts in his shoes, glancing around. In the light, his scar looks like dog pissing on a tree. It was Little Pup's name on his cheek.  
  
Fifty G? I mock. Jesus H. Christ, who the hell does he think I am? Why, for fifty G, I could blind him, nothing more. Come on, Pup, you know if I get caught I go to the Dubse'ef, and I ain't talkin' bout no bathroom.  
  
Pop didn't give me clearance for no more, Little Pup looks around, uncomfortable at the thought of the W.C.F. Well, the little bastard might as well be uncomfortable, his sister is the one who went and killed her husband and then confessed, the idiot.  
  
As soon as it hits the high point . . . I glance into the shadows behind Puppy's head.  
  
One fifty, I tell him. Puppy nods, then reaches into his pocket. I reach into mine, take out a gun, check the silencer, and shoot him. Less than ten seconds, it took me, from the time the bugger started moving his hand, I call into the shadows.  
  
Lucy, girl, you got it all, Bret tells me. C'mon, we gotta ride ass to the restaurant if we gonna make our diner reservations.  
  
_{/vivid thoughts}_  
  
Idly, I push that thought into the filing cabinet. Freaking sterotypical thought, at that.  
  
A dog barked a few blocks away. Judging from the sound of the bark, it was a German Shepard; an expensive dog that I didn't think fit into the neighborhood. I glanced uneasily at the door, but the knob remained in the same position.  
  
Turning the pages until I was at the beginning of the list, I saw myself at Alan's page.  
  
_[gray thoughts]  
_  
I'm sitting on my bed, after the lights have been turned off, trying to mediate. I have to go to the bathroom so badly, I am praying for daylight. It isn't that I can't sneak out of the barracks and go to the bathrooms. I can. It is just that I cannot be invisible at the same time.  
  
I turn to the left. Martin and Lezli are both sleeping on their side, away from me. I can see their faces clearly in my mind's eye. Lezli, with her dark red stubble and her bright green eyes, probably has her nose scrunched up. Martin, his skin and eyes dark brown, has the look of the half-awake.  
  
Immediately after, I can see soft blonde and blue of Mikaele, her face serene and un-worried in sleep. Frances, her hair getting long again, has her lips stuck out, her tongue between them.  
  
Then there is Alan. His hair is blonde, so pretty and golden, with these dark red colorings. His hair is an inch long, maybe slightly shorter. I can see places where it is blonde, places where it is red. He is mixed . . . his eyes, I can see clearly from memory, are hazel.  
  
I appreciate the colors and shapes and everything about him. He is most definately pretty.  
  
My prettiest brother.  
  
_[/gray thoughts]_  
  


**ALAN**  


  
**Barcode**: 409785616**032  
**  
**Given name**: Alan Quintanilla  
  
**Height**: 5'6"  
  
**Weight**: 141  
  
**Eyes**: Hazel  
  
**Hair**: Brown  
**  
Birthdate**: August 4, 2010  
  
**Location**: Five Corners Group Home # 74, Arkansas  
  
**School**: Five Corners Middle School  
  
**GPA**: 4.0; 4.0; 4.0; 4.0 (last four quarters)  
  
**General Accessment**: Clean home, one hundred forty children in it. The school is about a block away. Well adjusted.  
  
The little amount of information that Martin has in the book spoke volumes about my brother Alan. I could remember how quiet Ally was, how content he was to be in the background while Lezli or myself was up in the foreground. I pictured Ally some place, happy, drawing, or . . . maybe writing jokes . . . I could remember how witty he used to be . . .  
  
Thoughts about Ally angered me. Alan had been so quiet, so funny, and so pretty. I wondered if he was any of these things, or if he, like Martin, had matured and changed.  
  
Would I recognize him if I saw him in the street?  
  
I looked down at the page. Frances . . .   
  


**FRANCES**  


  
**Barcode**: 425765147**968  
**  
**Given name**: Frances Knotz  
  
**Height**: 5'4"  
  
**Weight**: 117  
  
**Eyes**: Dark Brown  
  
**Hair**: Dark Brown  
**  
Birthdate**: May 6, 2010  
  
**Location**: Fremont Group Home #4, New Mexico  
  
**School**: P.S. 44  
  
**GPA**: 4.0; 4.0; 4.0; 4.0 (last four quarters)  
  
**General Accessment**: Better than average group home, only thirty-three other children in it. School seems adequate. In all honors classes.  
  
Frances . . . could anything be upsetting to Frannie? Of all of us, she seemed to be the most normal, the most ready to fall into life. Even Martin had this certain aura about him that didn't scream, I'm a norm! Frannie did. Frannie would make it in the world.  
  
I turned to the last page, knowing very well who was next. There it was, across the page, just as it had been the first day.  
  


**LEZLI**  


  
**Barcode**: 425838243**413  
**  
**Given name**: Lezli Witting  
  
**Height**: 5'7"  
  
**Weight**: 148  
  
**Eyes**: Bright Green  
  
**Hair**: Dark Red  
**  
Birthdate**: January 23, 2010  
  
**Location**: Snape Group Home # 43, Texas  
  
**School**: Snape Intermediate School  
  
**GPA**: 4.0; 4.0; 4.0; 4.0 (last four quarters)  
  
**General Accessment**: Class treasurer. Fairly good group home with plenty of resources. Has plenty of friends, seems to be starting to notice the boys. Keep a note on that.  
  
As always, Lezli was center of attention. Would she ever be anything other than the center of the group; the big cheese? Boys . . . she was the one I worried about. With Lezli's shocking good looks, or, as shocking as I remembered them, the boys would be all over her.  
  
The thought didn't please me. Not at all. Lezli was my sister and . . . boys were boys. Good God, couldn't you stop boys from being boys?  
  
_{vivid thoughts}_  
  
I glance up angrily from the pile of paperwork that I have all over my desk. Its David, the arrogant asshole. I had been afraid it was my boss, Laraby. Speak of the Devil, here he comes. David slinks off toward the corner.  
  
Casey Billings, I've got more to add to your pile, Laraby tosses a thick file on my desk. Bastard.  
  
Thank God he didn't see me, David says when Laraby passes.  
  
I am irritated. There is no God, only the government.  
  
_{/vivid thoughts}_  
  
That memory disturbed me. I quickly filed it away and turned the page, trying to block the irritation that I felt at David, the smartass . . . wait . . . I dropped the book on the desk, then fled to the comfort of bed and sleep.


	12. Temi

.12  
  
Once at home and settled in, I actually had time to slow down and feel like it would be okay. I missed all of my brothers and sisters, even those, like Adam, who had been taken years beforehand. I resolved not to let any more of my brothers and sisters get taken.  
  
One morning, not long after I had gone through everyone's life, I walked into Mom and Dad's apartment. Qeleigh and Roan were there, their faces plastered with what I honestly hoped was chocolate.  
  
They looked so much alike that it was difficult for me to figure out which was which. It was actually kind of sad, me trying to see if the one in the long pants was the boy or the girl; or perhaps it was the one in the shorts.  
  
"Dad?" I called out. Like I said earlier, if those kids were covered with anything I hope that it was chocolate. Cooking with Dad seemed to be the thing you would want; not them in something Mom left out after she was finished with some project.  
  
I glared at their heads as they disappeared into the kitchen, giggling. I smugly decided that the one in the long pants was bow-legged.  
  
"Dad's not here," Mom came out of the kitchen, quite literally covered in about three times as much chocolate as the twins. How adorable, I did *not* think. She looked silly. Distastefully, I sat myself down on the couch.  
  
Oops! I had sat down on a small black object. Wait a second, I thought, didn't I have a cat? Mom was busy with wiping her face, but one of the kids saw it fly away to the other end of the couch.  
  
"Laura."  
  
I looked where the panted-brat had pointed, its chubby -- I don't think *I* ever had chubby anything -- finger fixed unsteadily on the cat.  
  
"Lorna," I corrected automatically. "She's my cat." It was true, I said to Mom in defense of her stare. Lorna was my cat. I had killed her mother. I was the one who Lorna had snuggled to; I was the one who had felt out Lorna's emotions.  
  
"No!" the shorted-thing suddenly. I glanced over at it. "'Tis my cat."  
  
"Roan-Sullivan," -- so the thing in pants was the boy -- "Ripe Strawberry, this is Tyronica. Lorna is Tyronica's cat, remember?" Mom pointed at me, her eyebrows raised high. I was feeling rebellious, so I didn't look back at her with the kindest of looks. Besides, who in the world nicknames their kid Ripe Strawberry.  
  
Qeleigh started in now. "Laura-na is Roan-Sul'van's," she declared. I shook my head. I knew I was losing the battle. Even I couldn't keep baiting a kid like I was doing for long.  
  
"Never mind, it's Roan's," I got up, glaring at both the twins in turn. "Ma," I turned to my mother, "when Dad get's home, have him give me a ring. I need to talk with him."  
  
"About what?" Mom looked at me, her arms full of twins and her hair full of flour. I didn't remember her cooking when I had been living there. In fact, the only time I could remember her cooking was when she accidentally set fire to the trash can and some banana peelings started baking.  
  
"I need some information on where my siblings are staying," I said, turning on my heel. I was almost at the door when fat little fist grabbed my arm.  
  
"Wait," Qeleigh said. "Since you can't have Laura-na, maybe you want one of her kittens? They're at Aunt Orange-nal Cindy's."  
  
I rolled my eyes. Did this kid have some persistent lisp. I shook her hand lose. "Look, Qel," I said to her, "I'll go look at them, but, to tell you the truth, I'm pretty damn disappointed my cat was promiscuous."  
  
Qeleigh looked up at Mom. "I wont tell," she whispered, "that you swore."  
  
I shut the door behind me forcibly. Then I ran down the stairs; ran like the days when I had been racing Her; when she had been my mother and had set fire to banana peels.  
  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~  
  
I sat in my apartment most of that day, working diligently on some information on Martin that I wanted to write down, to translate. However, by the end of the day, I was getting itchy. I had been taking it too slow, I saw, and I needed to work off my steam.  
  
I grabbed my coat, on that Mumma in France had gotten me for the light winter that we had been experiencing, and jogged out the door, locking it as an afterthought. I didn't want anybody stealing the things that I had in there.  
  
The air was cool and sharp; as I well remembered from my year in Seattle. The people walking by were hurried and distracted, with no time at all in their lives to take notice of a small girl streaking by them.  
  
The smells of the air around me were thick and heavily scented with the various fumes from the exhaust of cars.  
  
I have always been drawn with some sort of weird fascination to the smell of exhaust. It holds a sort of exotic smell to it and I can really understand the reasons why people would scream at a tired and bleary eyed roommate, "You been taking a shot out of the Honda?"  
  
The streets, previously unexplored by me on my return to Seattle, were as familiar to me as they were so many months ago, when I had last walked their maze from school and store. There were a few new stores, I saw as I rounded certain corners, but they were almost immediately filed away into my internal map.  
  
Not the site, but the memory of. I can know exactly what a store looks like from remembering it . . . give me the name and I'll immediately bring up in my mind a store front. If I have been in the store, I'll probably have the outline of the store memorized, much as you memorize the outline of a house that you live in.  
  
Its all a matter of me wanting to always be aware of my surroundings. Always.  
  
I turned a corner and was met head on with a heavy fog, blown over from some part of the ocean. What was it about the constant lingering of the salt air that made me want to scream for the joy of it? I had always loved the ocean. As I jogged, rushing my energy out in great puffs of crystallized air, I couldn't recall why.  
  
! ! ! ! !  
  
I ended up at Original Cindy's digs. Call me a sucker, but I wanted to see the homely things that Lorna, my cat of Solitude, had dropped out of her into this world of crime and poverty. I paused, almost, when entering the building . . . then I walked in, my head pounding.  
  
The hallways were even dirtier than I remembered. Time does not cause cigarettes to stain less, though it does fade the blood on the bottom step, from where that stupid little kid Oscar or Omar or whoever had fallen and hurt himself. Visiting someone, he said, when I asked where he lived. Scared the pissants out of the little dork.  
  
I almost just walked into Original Cindy's . . . but then I remembered that she wouldn't like that. She probably had some honey in the bedroom and Cindy is quite the bee when it comes to honeys, if you know what I mean. I didn't like, to pry into Original Cindy's private life, even if I did feel like breaking a door into the solid mess I had made of my walls.  
  
I never wanted to hunt in Original Cindy's head . There was something way too familiar about her thoughts, about her memories, that I was partially frightened of. I mean, damn, how many times do you meet a women dressed to kill who has the words, "He's a soldier, he was sent out to kill or be killed. If you don't kill him, you're through here," in their heads.  
  
So, after my quick customary inventory of her head, I stopped prying. I never told Mom, I never told Dad. I tried to just think of Original Cindy as a great person, and it worked. Every time, though, I stop myself from going in her mind, I get this vague idea of familiarity, then, in the back, I remember the line, faintly.  
  
It wasn't as if I wanted to keep on remembering the line. It was of no great importance to me. It just was a warning sign that her life had been hell for a norms life. I didn't want no sob story on my hands, so to speak. I tried, at that stage in my life, to keep out of military thinking.  
  
Zack changed that. Odd how thinking of Cindy turned my minds to the Grand Master Facade. When I was younger we played a game of war . . . we played a game of Manticore . . . he had been level with my thinking . . . but once I got older I realized . . . what had I realized? That my thinking was wrong when I was younger? That it was the only thing I could do, run, after they killed my brothers and sisters. That I would have been killed too? Then they came back, not dead at all, and the scenario changes.  
  
I know, though, I know, that I wouldn't have been killed. In the back of my mind I knew that Dad wouldn't kill me just because he needed to kill the others. I was the last of my breed, an endangered species. You don't kill off the last Dodo bird. You try to figure out how to make it tick, so you can stick it in with the X-7s to be the leader they need.  
  
Only I tricked them. I knew what they were going to do to me when I heard Dad's thoughts. I knew, from my little experience with the X-7, that they were a different breed of PA-1s, that I was better, but I didn't have the siblings to match.  
  
Why the hell did they want to transplant me? Why kill off all of my brothers and sisters? I'd never know.  
  
Pushing all thoughts to the back of the room, I reached out and knocked smartly on the door. I don't mean to say that I did it in an intelligent manner; I just gave it three short raps with my knuckles. It was opened after a few minutes by Original Cindy, her hair a little wet, so she had obviously come from the shower.  
  
"Hey, girl, you lookin' to stand there drippin' all day, or you gonna 'vite me in?" I asked, my speech falling easily back into the slang that I had become accustom to in Cindy's presence.  
  
"Giiirrrlll," Original Cindy drawled, "it has been too long! Max and Logan said you was back in town, but they said you weren't looking to party, so I laid off. How's it been, eh?"  
  
"You would not believe the food in France. Its horrible. All I wanted was some oatmeal and milk, maybe some lasagna . . . but they tried to feed me snails. I mean, goodness, my foster mother was a stupid Englishwoman and she couldn't stop it with the snails and stuff. If I hadn't have been able to mess with the mind of the cook, I would have starved," I declared.  
  
"Mmm-hm," Cindy said, trying to figure out if I was just bullshiting her or if I had honestly been force fed garden pests.  
  
"It is the truth," I said. GET ANNA TO TRANSLATE TO FRENCH.  
  
She rolled her eyes at me. I was about to explain that it simply meant, "It is the truth," when she told me, "Sure, its the truth, but can you sit down and have cup of copy with me?"  
  
"I'd tell you no, that coffee stunts my growths, and all that other crap, but I'm an addict. I even took a test in the Streets of Seattle. Its the caffeine buzz that gets me going. If I can't get coffee, I get the Dew or even a Pepsi," my mouth was watering thinking about it. Its a digestive reaction. If you even think about food, your mouth will start watering. I learned that in the fifth grade, not at Manticore. We didn't study too much about food at Manticore.  
  
"It isn't strong, but I add Pepsi to it instead of sugar, so that you get that extra oomph you need. I'm glad you approve of Pepsi, because I don't stock my shelves with none of that ratty Coca-cola, hear me?"  
  
As Original Cindy and I sat down, we discussed the past few years. I asked about her job, about her boss, about Sketchy and Herbal. She told me that, oddly enough, Herbal had disappeared. I had only known him for a year, but I was disappointed, to say the least, that he wasn't there anymore.  
  
"Sad times we are coming to," I told Cindy in the way of Herbal Thought.  
  
"It's like, you know," said Original Cindy, at a loss for words.  
  
"I'll take short lived 1990s sitcoms for one hundred, Alex," I said to her. She grinned at me. "I hear that Lorna had herself a fling with a cat down the way. Mind if I see the fruits of her labor?"  
  
Original Cindy led me down the length of the room to a corner where a large cardboard box stood. About nine kittens were in the box, each being about four weeks old, each totally confident that they were going to beat the hell out of the other cat it was fighting against.   
  
"I take by the size of it that it isn't her first litter. You guys let my cat become a tramp. We aren't starting a kitty mill, are we?" I asked brightly. Original Cindy punched me lightly on the arm.  
  
"Y c'n take one if you want. 'Taint no hair off the backs of us. Warning to you, they all a bit hungry every four hours, so keep the food out," Original Cindy gestured to a large bowl she had set down in corner of the box. Anther corner contained a bowl with water.  
  
"Who said anything about a kitten?" I said, my mind's wall easily blocking out the emotions of the kittens as they tried wrestle. I could tell by the fluid motions of their bodies that the Tom of the litter was a good one. I picked up a little orange cat who had a bullseye of white on either side of him, along with a few stripes for good measure. "Poor homely fella, gots the Roman nose, he does."  
  
"Take him, makes these guys have an even number," Original Cindy pushed me out the door. "Just remember to chop anything you try to feed it up . . . oh, and contrary to popular belief, cats get very sick if they drink milk. Its from a cow, not their mother. Give them water."  
  
"Like I'd waste milk on a stupid cat," I said, half-way down the stairs. How the heck did accept this flea infested lump of fur as a pet? I wasn't quite sure, but I didn't like it.  
  
When I got home and sat the homely thing down on my table, I started applying names. Abraham. Brigham. Carl. David -- pronounced in the Spanish way, thank you very much -- and Edwin all sucked biggie for the orange thing. So did my favorite name in the world, Fred. I stopped before I got to Geronimo. It was getting pretty pathetic.  
  
I took the cat's head in my hands and sat, "What do you want to be named, you stupid cat?" He bit my nose in return for my consultancy I called him a fair few amount of names that would never ever grace the pages of "Help! I'm Pregnant and Its A boy -- I need a name!"  
  
! ! ! ! ! !  
  
The cat and I got used to each other by morning. I went out and pocketed a few coins from men and women who would never miss them, then I went to Albertsons and used the machine thing to change my coins into dollar bills. You would never believe how much money you can get from just bumping into someone and taking their wallet for five seconds, tops.   
  
Of course, if it were a real swell, the type of family that Logan came out of, why, I took fives and tens from them. Mumma had been of that breed, as had her husband, and I knew exactly what they could spare and what they couldn't.  
  
So, after I got my dollars from the Albertsons machine and banged it a few extra times and got my coins back -- a trick I learned quite by accident my first day, so I kept a jar filled the with the coins. Nobody saw me, with my lightning quick strikes, hit the machine in the special spot, so nobody else figured it out. I guess you could say I never paid a fee. Hell, they shouldn't have made the waiting chamber in the machine. Anyway, I'd go into the store and buy stuff, like any honest shopper.  
  
Albertsons was one of the few of those little stores that survived. They were like cockroaches, them and Target, and nobody could get rid of them. They'd survived WWIII I heard somebody say that Einstein had said that he had no idea how World War III would be, but World War IV would be fought with sticks.  
  
You get the idea.  
  
So, I bought my things, jog past the fruit stands, and buy there too, because the stupid cat would only eat celery and ham. That's right, celery and ham, with a little bit of beef. It was an expensive cat, I can sure tell you that. Though I must say that I ate well too. You didn't expect me not to have some before I gave it to the cat, did you? Now that would be just weird. Its expensive meat, for Christ's sake!  
  
I found out his eating habits the night before, when trying to feed him. Desperately, I opened my refrigerator and thrust before him what was supposed to be my dinner, but which hadn't been finished when I was preparing it. It was cooked ham, cooked beef, and steamed celery bits. Heaven only knows why he took to it.  
  
So there I was, at seven-thirty-six in the morning, making the cat and me some breakfast. As breakfasts go, it wasn't that bad. I was having oatmeal, something that I had always had for breakfast as far back as I can remember, which is almost to the age of non-verbalness, and the cat was going to have a bit too, before I began preparing the stuff for him.  
  
He lapped it up. That really surprised me . . until I realized what trouble this cat would be. It would be like having a child, only one that never spoke to me and never came to me if I called it. God forbid, they had given me a teenage. Rotten dirty of them, I thought darkly.  
  
Then, I heard him, the one I could never block. Not his thoughts, but his emotions, very strong. Great, I thought, gathering up the dishes. He's about two blocks away. I dumped my oatmeal into the cat's bowl, wishing I had some milk to gulp down, because I was feeling a bit shaky, but I decided on taking a pill to cease my worrying. Then I grabbed my notebook and pens and locked the apartment door. He was one block away.  
  
I paused momentarily on the stair landing, debating taking the cat with me, because I most certainly didn't want to come back and see on my hardwood floors where the cat had mess all over them. Thank goodness that I hadn't bothered to put any carpets in the apartment. Shaking my head to myself, I walked down the stairs.  
  
Knowing which direction to go was easy. Even though I didn't want to open the wall up so that I could view what he was viewing, I could vaguely tell which way he was by the strength of the emotions and fleeting words that I was getting. Firstly, I was heading in the wrong direction and I started catching snatches of sentences.  
  
Finally, after three minutes of brisk walking, my shoulders set straight and my eyes never straying to the side, the last wisps of him were gone from my mind, and with good riddance. Walking cheerfully forward, I noticed a park that I had frequented as a child.  
  
Mom used to bring me here, I thought with a smile. The park had been near Mom and Dad's apartment and it was easy to walk there after school and finish my homework. I sat down on the grass and watched, my eyes half glazed over, several school-aged children. A woman sat beside me on the bench; I ignored her, choosing to stay in my semi-trance just a few moments longer, enjoying the crisp air on my cheeks.  
  
We sat that way for several minutes; me, almost asleep, so calm and peaceful was I; her, quietly watching as the children played. My mood was totally different from the hurried and anxious one that had been my previous. Finally, the woman tapped my shoulder and I turned toward her.  
  
"Mom," I said, surprised, "I didn't realize it was you. Why didn't you say something earlier; you could obviously tell it was me. I mean, come on, I haven't changed much in like a day, have I?"  
  
"You didn't seem to want to be disturbed," Mom replied congenially. "I would have thought that you would have detected me immediately, but maybe with your sorting and stuff, you didn't feel hear me?" My mother looked at me with a question left unsaid.  
  
"I finished sorting a few weeks ago . . . well, not all of it, but the major ideas. When they surface, I shove them into a drawer and lock them in," I explained to her. I omitted the most serious part; I hadn't been letting thoughts into my room.   
  
I think she understood what I left unsaid, for any part she told me that Dad was able to track down the addresses to the information that I had left on my siblings' locations. The only problem was with Lezli's group home, or orphanage . . . as the romantics like to call them. Dad had found the group home, however . . . "He says that Lezli's name isn't in the system, but he isn't surprised. With the unusual spelling, he bets that she has gone with a more conservative Lesley or even stayed out of the computer all together."  
  
"I can't quite see her changing her name. It isn't in her style. She likes to stick out . . . she must have just deleted her files . . . or even gone with a totally different name . . . like Fredrika," I grinned, almost to myself. I could just imagine the teasing names that a Fredrika would get.  
  
"Are you certain on the spelling of her name, Tyronica?" Mom looked at me sideways, "I mean, we never exactly signed our papers at Manticore, now did we? We just wrote our designation number on anything that wasn't already supplied with our barcode."  
  
"We had our own written code, Mom," I reminded her. "That meant that we had to translate her name into an English spelling. Besides, I never hear a name that I don't spell out in my mind automatically . . . like in Anne of Green Gables. You know, that book has always prejudiced me against any Anns I'll ever meet. Even when I found out that Rosie O'Donnell's first name was Roseann, it kind of cooled something for me, because I love her work, especially all the charity work she's done for the gay and lesbian community."  
  
"You sidetracked," Mom informed me. "The problem here is Lezli. We aren't sure if she's in Texas, like you have."  
  
I fumed silently. "Look, we found the others the system, right?" My mother nodded her head. "Well, Lezli is probably the only one who had the smarts to delete her file."  
  
"I don't remember you deleting your file," Mom said with a smug look.  
  
"I never had one. I went to low budget gigs where the computer equipment was so outdated that I couldn't play PacMan, let alone hack into the Pentagon."  
  
"You've done that before?" Mom asked, curiosity getting the best of her.  
  
"Now who's sidetracking?" I asked wickedly. She slapped me on the arm, hard enough that I knew I would bruise. I grinned. "Glad you aren't treating me like a china doll anymore. Remember when you broke three of my toes by stomping on my foot?"  
  
"Logan gave me hell for that, I sure do remember it," Mom told me. Her pager went off at that moment. "Speaking of your father . . . " she said, trailing off. "Wanna have lunch with us?"  
  
"No, thanks," I told her, "gotta get some work done. Catch you later, 'kay?"  
  
"Yeah, later," she told me as she got on her bike and pedaled off. I hadn't even noticed it parked in the bushes behind the bench. Then again, I hadn't any need to turn around. "Don't stay too long; this place has gone to the dogs."  
  
! ! ! ! ! !   
  
What is better than sitting in a park and translating pages of information about your siblings? Sitting in a park and enjoying yourself. Martin's notebook had page after page of meticulous information on the weeks that he spent with them. It seemed he had kept a journal. To tell you the truth, I hadn't remembered just how annoying the sound of Ally's laughter was, but the way Martin had constantly written about Ally laughing, or, as Marty put it, hehawing, brought back the worst of it.  
  
It was getting dark, nearly nine o'clock, when I had finished. I don't pretend to say that I had spent eleven o'clock to nine o'clock working. I had, of course, gotten up and enjoyed myself, ran around in the soft grass a bit, rolled on my back, and taken a few naps  
  
I was just wrapping up some finishing touches on the last translation when, out of nowhere, the strong smell of alcohol wafted over to me. My eyes glanced around in a hopefully nondescript manner. I saw a drunk man, about fifteen yards away, stumpling in my direction. I paid him no heed until he stopped near me and grabbed the back of my blouse.  
  
"Hello," he said in a slurred voice. He had dark, disheveled blonde hair that looked like it hadn't been washed in ages and a crooked nose, probably broken in a drunken brawl. I tugged forward slightly, which loosened his strong grip on my clothing. A quick sizing up revealed that he was a big guy, maybe six three, and his arms looked muscular. "Naw, naw, now, dohn do dat," he warned me but to me it sounded more like a threat.  
  
One, I said silently inside my mind. Aloud, I said, "Leave me alone." I hoped he would be intimidated and just move along. It had worked before, many times, in France. You can never be too sure what kind of peds you'll meet in a post-Pulse world, even in an area like the French suburbs.  
  
Again, the man grabbed at my shirt. "Missy, you come on with me. I'll help you find you're way home." Even though he was drunk, he made sure he had a strong grasp on me. By the look in his eyes and his jerky movements I started to wonder if he was also high on something. Just what had he snorted, injected, or smoked before partying with the guys?  
  
Two, I thought, sighing a bit. "I'm not lost. If you don't leave me alone, I'll hurt you." I started to walk forward, but he clamped is hands around my waist. Three. "Stop it, now, stop it! I'm going to have to hurt you." I yanked myself free of his grasp which, even with all of my Manticore-bred strength, was surprisingly hard. I had only managed to run a few steps when the fool tackled me from behind. I was already seething inside at the temerity of this drunken moron but now I was truly pissed at his actions. I mean, how many thirteen year old girls, even genetically engineered super-humans, like getting tackled by a two hundred and fifty pound guy? I smashed face first into a concrete trash can and I immediately could feel blood trickling down my face at several points. This didn't exactly improve my spirit.  
  
I reached into my front pocket, which was difficult, considering the Hulk was lying on me, messing with cutting open my Levis, and brought out my trusty glasses case. Inside the case was the best friend that I would ever have; my good ol' knife. I felt the cold metal slide between my fingers as I fought to find a good grip on it.  
  
Bringing it behind me, I stabbed blidnly at the general area where his fingers were. The knife stalled in my hands as the tip of the blade left the air as I felt it cut into the fleshy parts of his hand. Twisting and tearing as I stabbed repeatedly into my target. But he didn't cry out in pain, he just tried to pick up his knife and continue working whenever it was knocked out of his shaky hands.  
  
"Be still," he warned. It still sounded like another threat I didn't want to deal with.  
  
I finally couldn't take it anymore and turned on him with my bare hands, thoroughly enraged. I envisioned myself savagely and brutally beating him to the ground for so many reasons. For everything he was putting me through to everything that was going wrong in my life. I expected to sink my first right in his gut hoping to knock the wind out of him. Unfortunately for both of us he was bent over. My fist made contact with the flat top of his head and sent it flying toward the trash can, where it thudded dully like the sound of a baseball bat striking a wet block of wood. His left hand clenched his knife -- he was left handed, or ambidextrous -- and his eyes looked surprised, but, other than that, he just looked dead.  
  
Oops.  
  
I got up and brushed myself off while glancing at the limp form lying prone on the ground. Oh well. What's one norm, more or less. And this guy, covered in tattoos, was a drunken ped who had hyped out on some drug that really made him seem fearless . . . and painless. I looked at his fingers. One was actually missing. I had never seen anyone act like that. It was like he was a Temi user or something.  
  
Jesus. He was a Temi user . . .   
  
Temicoxtrin . . . it promoted the manufacturing of adrenaline in the body . . . and made the user freakishly strong and stopped him or her from feeling pain. Not many people survive an encounter with someone who used too much of it. The high, or buzz, gotten from Temicoxtrin was described as getting married, losing your virginity, and becoming a parent all in the same period of time. As I had experienced none of these enjoyments, I could curse all users.  
  
I didn't need to worry about killing him. They'd think two Temi users got into a fight and one came out victorious. The other . . . well, the other had probably gotten the farm he'd always wanted as a kid.  
  
I wouldn't have felt bad for killing him even if he was just a drunken norm, not a Temi user. Norms are to Manticores what deer are to norms. If you run over them in the road, you regret it, because they're useful to have around, but you don't cry your eyes out unless it was a pet or something. Like Logan was my family member, that stupid deer in The Yearling was to his owner.  
  
At least it was a Temi user. 


	13. Blur

You know the disclaimers . . .   
  
Part .13  
  
The next few weeks were a blur for me. I worked non-stop on cleaning my apartment. It was a royal mess. I could have sworn that it looked halfway decent before I moved it, but the moment I stepped foot into it, I became a disaster area. Add that to the fact that the cat was still getting box trained and I was cleaning quite a while each day.   
  
What is it with people and cats, anyway? I mean, you see people put out little dishes for their cats, filled with this soft, nice smelling stuff, and they live on crap. It is pathetic. Sure, my cat ate pretty much what I did, but only after I was finished with it. I wasn't pampering the idiotic little bugger -- hell, I hadn't named him yet. But it stilled disgusted me to see people with their well-groomed little darlings on pillows while their snot-nosed kids go hungry.   
  
I decided, one day, that I needed time to myself. I was getting cramped in the four walls. I hadn't had any fun in days -- almost a week -- and I just wanted a chance to sprint and race. It was my time to run. All I really wanted to do was play a bit; maybe jot down a few ideas of my own, not just about siblings; maybe go to the park and start a grass fight amongst the little kids and laugh while I watched them. I just needed time, which I suppose is really all of us need, huh?   
  
The air was crisp and clean-ish. I can't stand the pollution that you get in the bigger cities. In Europe, it isn't so bad. You get a chance to breathe for yourself many of the days, you know, and the people don't go around half-stoned from exhaust fumes most of the time. Since Seattle is near the ocean, plenty of fresh air is blown towards us. Not that I don't enjoy the smell of exhaust fumes, mind you.   
  
I walked slowly, enjoying the faces that were rushing past me with various expressions on them. The are all so odd, so wrapped up in themselves. Too wrapped up to notice the faces of their companions, you see. It is really nothing more than laziness on their part. I don't understand people. They're such fucking idiots sometimes. They don't do anything, really, except save their ass. Then again, I'm a hypocrit.   
  
I started kicking a pebble as I walked. It is a pretty fun thing to do. You have to make certain everything is aligned correctly: your shoe is just the correct height off of the ground, your toe pointed down just low enough to start the pebble going, and your pebble not turned in some wacky directions that's gonna take that diver to the left on you as you kick.   
  
I wasn't paying attention to where I was going, like normal, when I ran into Meg. It sure shocked the heck out of me. I was just kickin' along when suddenly my head went into somebody's shoulder. I glanced up, expecting to have to apologize to some adult, then lift a ten offa him, when I saw a grin and bright eyes.   
  
My mouth must have dropped a million miles. "Meg," I gasped. Meg's grin widened. I shook my head. My hair bounced in the wind, blowing into my face. I flicked it out of my way impatiently. "My goodness, haven't seen you in years! It's been so long since I left for France, hasn't it?"   
  
"We were told that you went to live in Canada," Meg said, raising an eyebrow. Canada? Who in the hell would live in Canada? Didn't Mom and Dad know that Canada was full of hockey players and homosexuals . . . Oh . . . if somebody had questioned Meg, they would have gotten Canada. Wait a second, Mom and Dad hadn't even known that I was living in France. Maybe they had honestly believed that I was in Canada. Then that would put them in the position of . . . oh, fuck it. I started paying attention to Meg again. "You know what? I don't care."   
  
" Bonjour, mon nom est Ty. maintenant que je sais que vous biseauté me comprenez, je vous direz ceci. Je suis un solider superbe génétiquement machiné. Je suis sur le passage de ceux qui m'ont fait. Surprise.." I said, giving her a wink. French is French. It had always surprised me when I had first left Manticore and people didn't know languages or such other things. I had grown up listening to countless instructions on languages, my fingers sometimes getting blistered when I didn't roll my Rs correctly in Spanish. Spanish is fun. Er, español es divertido.   
  
"Wow!" Meg said. She grabbed me in a tight hug. "I really missed you! You were like my best friend. School isn't the same without you. There is this new girl there, I'm sure you'll like her. She has really dark eyes that look almost black. It's scary, very scary. Sometimes, though, I wish that they weren't so large. She looks like an owl, staring out at me. In class I'll poke her and whisper, 'Hoo hoo. Hoo hoo,' to make her giggle. She turns bright red and stuff."   
  
Probably looks like a cherry. Probably looks like a cherry with two black *mold* spots on her. The sunlight was dimming as a cloud passed. I nodded. "There was a girl who spoke a lot in my school in France. She never stopped talking. She looked like a Smurf." The idiotic girl. I had hated her. She had known English -- about a cupful of words and phrases -- because her mother was from New Zealand. Her mother wasn't even from Australia -- she was from some dinky little second country. Not that I had anything against New Zealand; Lucy Lawless is one kick ass babe.   
  
"What's a Smurf?" Meg asked me. I gave her a look that totally said where-have-you-been-the-past-thirty-years? And snorted. She hit me in the shoulder. I grinned; we were going to have a lot of catching up to do. Then again, Smurf's were hard to explain. Little blue people with weird faces. Yeah, that would be so great to explain.   
  
"C'mon," I said, grabbing her hand. "I'll buy us something to drink; coffee or something, you know -- " I interrupted when someone touched my shoulder. I turned around and saw someone there I hadn't seen in quite a while. My father. "Dad."   
  
Dad looked tired. The lines around his eyes were too highly visible. I tried to ignore what I was seeing, just listen, but it kind of hurt. There he was, his chin streaked with a pen that he had probably been holding at one time or the other. "You were looking for me a couple of weeks ago, looking for some information," Dad told me quietly. I saw Meg step back and away from him; she had always been rather afraid of Dad. I looked into his blue eyes and saw weariness in them. I quickly looked away. Focusing on hopes of his finding information on my siblings was my main plan. He had found them, I knew it. Dad had found all of the others and I would send them off like I had sent off Martin and everything would be okay and I could go home and curl up into a ball and forget that everything I had ever tried for was falling to pieces around me. "I can't find anything else."   
  
I don't think my face revealed anything. I remember classes at Manticore. Don't let your enemy know what you are thinking. Don't let your ally know what you are thinking. There are times in life when there is no line between the two, just a fuzzy gray area that is known trust. Always remember one thing, though. Trust is bullsh**.  
  
"Thanks," I told him. "Thanks." I turned and left, forgetting about Meg in my haste to leave. It wasn't that I didn't want to talk to Dad; it was just that I didn't think I could without pulling my hair out. That's the odd thing about having good days; they can turn bad in an instant. There I was, ready to go out and have fun with my friend, when suddenly Dad comes up and reminds me that I don't have my siblings with me, that I can't get all of the resources to find them.   
  
It was like France, exactly like France. It was so full of hope, and then it just disappeared. I was so ready to have a life there, just like I had done in Seattle. It wasn't that way. I don't know what had made me so gullible. I suppose I expected that I would go to save people I loved from getting hurt, just like when I left Manticore, and it would all be okay.   
  
Life just fucks with you that it doesn't work. I don't expect to try it again. Running away from something I know and I love into something that I don't know is idiotic. I could have stayed low in Seattle, but I knew that every day I stayed there was a day that I could be drawing attention to Mom and Dad.   
  
I went to the market. Don't ask me why, but I am undoubtedly drawn to food when I'm feeling low. If I didn't have such a high metabolism, I might be making my escapes with the assistance of a crane. I eat like a grown man, most of the time. Actually, I eat kid stuff; I just eat it in quantities that would make a football player blush. Food is good. It is there, and if it isn't, you just go out and snag yourself some more. You get chips, you get whatever; it's on the store shelf, just waiting to be eaten. Food is very nice in times of need.   
  
I was munching on some apple that I had when suddenly I saw something that caught my eye. It was this dark shadow that fell across a public tree that was fenced in over on the corner.   
  
{Vivid thoughts}   
  
I'm starin' straight at the wall, pounding on the desk. It knocks my potted fern to the ground and I look at it in surprise before I toss the piece of trash gift away to the corner, next to the tree. There are shadows on it that give me the willies, and that just makes me fucking madder.   
  
Jesus Christ. Can't anybody do anything around here? Where the hell is the new guy, the one who was supposed to get me the shooting. The fucking idiot got me the wrong shooting. This is that Bruno Assemlo guy who got mowed down after he gave some big time on some of his fellows. Got to love people who take out rats.   
  
I glance back at the TV screen. Right there in the middle of it all is some crip. What in the hell is a crip doing over at the courthouse? Ain't never heard of no crip who was a reporter -- they gotta do legs work and without no workin' legs, they just can't do the legs work. That crip sure does have a nice nose, though. I rewind the tape. Yeah, nice nose, that crip.   
  
"RODRIGUEZ!" I screech for my secretary to come in and clean up the mess.   
  
"Coming, Mr. Billings!" I hear in reply.   
  
{/vivid thoughts}   
  
I looked down the street, from where I had come from. This was another of those memories involving that Billings man. Casey Billings. He was getting annoying. Now that he had hit so close to home with his newest memory, he was doubly annoying. I closed my eyes, trying to remember every detail. Casey Billings had said Logan Cale had a nice nose. I grinned. Logan was no crip, not anymore. Then I frowned. Maybe he'd like to know about these Billings memories? I shook my head. He wouldn't care. 


	14. Tennis

Part .14  
  
It had been too long. I suppose that there is some itch inside of me that wants me to keep moving. Even when I was a younger child, I couldn't contend with it. I was always running. Well, it was now officially ten weeks since I had dropped off Martin, and I had decided on which siblings I was going after next.  
  
It was going to be perfect; it was going to be Frances. She was the closest to me, anyhow, in New Mexico. I remembered Frannie, how she had always been so silent, yet so loud at the same time. I remembered the curls that I had envied.  
  
What made me chose Frances, aside from the fact that she was geographically closer to me than any of my other siblings? Dad found her in the system. That's it. That is your deciding factor. The big thing that made me chose which brother or sister to go after next. Silly, isn't it? Just practical. Like James had always said, "666, you are always too practical."  
  
James.  
  
Frances was living in a group home under the name of Francine. It was laughable, her having that name. Francine my butt. Dad once tried to call her Francine and she wouldn't speak to him but directly for months afterward. She was Frances. I don't think Dad ever really knew that we had nicknamed our nicknames. I mean Lydecker.   
  
I'm so f**ked up.  
  
Frannie was sweet, I remembered. Always had been sweet. She wasn't like Martin, with his quiet calmness and his hidden leadership. She was always working so hard to be the best that she could be. I remembered her athletic abilities. She was always running, that one, always trying to leave us in the dust. Many a times she had.   
  
Mom was the one who had found the information, actually. Mom had been sitting down, looking Dad's computer while he was out with the midgets. She had happened to glance down at the pages of notes that I had dutifully copied for Dad, all scattered haphazardly around the area of the computer. She had misread my writing and typed in the information incorrectly. And found my sister.  
  
Isn't it odd how things work? That is why I was on a train, my eyes closed, and my nose trying to keep out the smells. Trains are not exactly the nicest way of travel. Though they aren't as cheap as buses, they are still cheap enough that the common large sewer rat can buy a ticket, as long as they got the dinero.  
  
The scenery was rushing past me. It seemed to be doing a lot of that those days. Things were traveling too fast. First I was ready for coming back and having a blast, but things got trapped up in a whirlwind that took me along with it and it was ages later and I wasn't putting any of my information to use.  
  
It was an abomination that I had been allowed to lounge about and get my nerve up just to find my sister. The truth was, I was afraid. I remembered the first time I had seen Martin. I had been so surprised, been so scared. He wasn't all like I remembered him. Would Frances have changed so much?  
  
I glanced through the information that Dad had given me. The notes were short and simple. They included a photograph of Frances, a report card, and information on adopting her. The pictures showed her hair, long and thick looking, and her eyes, so shockingly dark. I hadn't remembered her eyes so dark, but it must have been the quality of the black and white I was in possession of.  
  
The soft lull of the train made me close my eyes, more from habit than from actual fatigue. I was wired on adrenaline, in all truthfulness, but I knew that once the rush was over I would begin to feel as if I had been run over several times by a semi. I opened them after a few moments.  
  
There were lists of parents there. There were several couples in the state of New Mexico and a few in Colorado. I couldn't remember much about New Mexico, just a few things on Santa Fe and something about Navajo Indians. Colorado I knew even less of, so I would probably need to study a few maps before I attempted any cross-state trekking.  
  
I was sitting next to a really young girl and her mother. At the beginning of the trip the girl, who was dressed prettily in a tidy little frock, had been full of questions and quite bouncy. It had been easy to tune out the sounds of her giggling and persistent questions.   
  
However, when she got carsick and her lunch - veggie-burger with extra ketchup -- ended up all over the floor and my sneakers, it was quite a lot harder to ignore her or the smell. The mother was properly apologetic, but, sheesh, she didn't even offer to pay for the sneakers.  
  
I was quite happy when the girl and mother left, but the next people to sit in their rather smelly seats weren't as content with the arrangement as one might think. I had washed up as best as I could, but my shoes still had a stench to them and I was certain that the dudes next to me thought I had lost my lunch. I was sulky for the length of the trip after they had boarded.  
  
Finally, my stop came. I slinked past the dudes to the aisle and grabbed my bag out of the compartment above the seats. It was the backpack that I had owned for so many years. It was still quite good; large enough to store clothing and notebooks, which was all I wanted. I pulled my hat down lower on my face.  
  
The bus depot was pretty crowded. I wasn't aware that there were that many people in New Mexico, much less in one little city called Lilth. I guessed that there was maybe some sort of fair going on or something that drew many visitors from neighboring cities.  
  
That's when I saw him. It was just his profile, but it sent shivers down my back just the same. Even seeing that hint of him made me want to stand up straighter, mask my emotions, and march towards him.  
  
Damnit, Lydecker. Always in my way. For a second, I would have acted on my instinct. Then I remembered Martin's face, and the black and white I had of Frannie, and I paused. This was not the time to go back to old ghosts, long dead and buried.  
  
Was it really him? I couldn't be sure. To be absolutely certain, I needed to trail him. I started walking quickly towards where I had seen the man. Was good ol' Deck closing in on Frances? I would never be able to live with myself if I was just one day too late. I broke into a soft jog.  
  
I needed an easier, quicker, and more efficient way of finding out if it was Lydecker. I took a deep breath. I needed to open the door. The only problem was, I couldn't. I was afraid too.  
  
Back in the earliest beginning of the century, there was this show on called Fear Factor. People faced their fears and they won money. It sounded easy enough. Get into a bathtub and have poison ness snakes dumped over you? Been there, done that, immune to most snake venom. Grab onto a rope and get pulled by a galloping horse? Gosh, when I was younger, I could only hope for something as simple as that. Break down a wall and let other people's thoughts into your head again?  
  
Okay, so I couldn't do that. I glanced left and right as I jogged, searching for people that would be with Lydecker. Your common military men dressed to kill in black, with buns of steel. You know the kind. I couldn't see any.  
  
If I didn't find him soon . . .  
  
I looked toward the south wall, just a little to my right, where there was an exit. It was the exit closest to where the man had been. I would stake the area around it out. It would be simple. I would find the man. I would.  
  
What would I do to him after I found him? Tell him to stay away, my sister is here and I haven't found her yet? That would be idiotic. Would I just simply confirm my suspicions, and then melt away into the crowd and towards Frances? It seemed like a good thing to do, if I could get to Frannie before Deck did. Kill him?  
  
Oh, that made my stomach jump.  
  
Would I actually kill Dad? F**k, Ty, no, Deck. We're talking about Lydecker. The one who didn't have enough brass to stand up to the director and tell the bitch that his kids didn't disserve to be slaughtered like some useless animals. Well, these pigs don't have four ears, let's just get rid of them as useless, even if they are as good as the two-eared pigs.  
  
I saw the point in that. We were useless if we couldn't use telecommunication. It was the thing that we needed. Without it, we were the X-6. Not as intelligent as the X-5s, at first glance, and not as swift as the X-7 perimeters.  
  
Not as good as the X-7s, who they succeeded with. Or that other group, the one in all those reports that we had brought up on the computers so long ago. We weren't as good as those and so we died. We thought it would stop.  
  
If I hadn't had been so good at it would more of them lived? I had tried to limit myself to the barest minimum and . . . I needed to find Lydecker. If I didn't find him in one hundred twenty seconds, I would break down the wall.  
  
Even if I didn't want too.  
  
My breathing became more ragged as I ticked down the seconds. For once I was pissed that I had an internal clock that could compete with those atomic timepieces they have. Ninety seconds to go, and I couldn't see anyone inside the building.  
  
Sixty seconds to go; I was pushed by someone into the path of the electric eye, which controlled the door. It slid open with a soft hiss. I backed away after glancing through the door.  
  
Thirty seconds to go. I noticed a security camera, so I pulled my hat down lower across my face. I didn't want to be a movie star; I wanted to stay out of the limelight.   
  
Fifteen seconds to go. I was mumbling the words "Oh God," over and over again. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. I needed to find him now.  
  
Ten seconds to go. I was mouthing the words, but no sound came out. I needed to find the man, and then go for Frances. I stepped outside of the building. I needed to find him.  
  
Three seconds to go. I found him. It wasn't Lydecker. I almost collapsed on the grass. As it was, I barely made it to the bench in time for me to sit down and let out a breath that I hadn't known I had been holding.  
  
Jesus Christ. That was some scary sh**.  
  
I looked down at my hands and noticed that I was clutching the address of Frances' group home. No better time than the present. I opened my bag to check that everything was still in it, then stood up and walked purposely out of the courtyard.  
  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~  
  
Frances was surprised to see me, to say the least. I had gone to her group home, where I had been told to visit P.S. 44. Given the most rudimentary of directions, I had walked into the office of the school and handed the receptionist a note, given to my by Dad. It had said that Francine was to be given a special gift from an estranged family member. Simple, easy, right? You wouldn't have been able to get away with it when Logan was a kid, but nobody cared much now.  
  
The receptionist tag said 'Angela'. I was reminded forcibly of the old 'principal' at my first group home. Mrs. Addiego had been one odd person. She had smelled like some kind of sterilizing liquid and wore too much red lipstick.  
  
Angela read the note, looked me over, and then shrugged. It just shows you how much money these kids were worth to them. For a millisecond, I was quite angry, but I tried to keep it down. I had to remember, always keep your emotions in check.  
  
"Sure, I'll get her for ya, honey," Angela said. I stopped myself from raising an eyebrow. If this actually was my old principal, I was going to s**t bricks. Angela leaned over and spoke into the intercom. "Francine Knotz, please come to the attendance office. Francine Knotz, please come to the attendance office."  
  
She had broken out into the biggest smile I had ever seen when she walked into the room. Then her face became blank and I saw her unconsciously stand up taller. I nodded at her, my own face void of emotion, while digging into my bag for another note. It was one, forged, from the group home, saying that I was allowed to take Francine away for the day. I had several variants for several situations. Dad hadn't realized how good I was with the pen until I showed him my handiwork.  
  
She didn't say anything until Angela reluctantly signed a release form and we had left the room. Then Frances turned to me, her brows crinkled.  
  
"PA1-666," she whispered.  
  
I grinned. "Frances," I said, pulling her toward me. She laughed. "It's been so long."  
  
"I thought you were dead," she said, her eyes bright with emotions. "I honestly believed that you were gone from us. How in the world did you find me? Lezli said . . ."  
  
I stopped her there. "It doesn't matter what anyone said. I found you. Martin was first, you are second. I've got more. Right now, I need you to tell me . . . what your life is like . . ."  
  
Frances looked at me. "Ty you are way too melodramatic." I scowled at her. I was not melodramatic. Never had been. "Okay, sorry," she said impishly. "Well, I'm a tennis player . . . and a basketball player . . . and . . . give me a sport and I'll play it."  
  
"You play tennis?" I asked her. I couldn't imagine her in a Venus or Serena Williams outfit. Her hair wasn't bleached orange and she had too many hard lines around the eyes.  
  
"My favorite," she turned her head horizontally to the right, I guess to get the crinks out of her neck. "Tennis is easy and you get the can hit balls really hard at people and blame it on your 'wild serve' and then make obscene gestures at whoever you beat when you sit down again." Frances crinkled her nose again. "Well, actually, I lose sometimes. You can't win everything."  
  
I knew the truth behind that statement. I shook my head and looked over Frannie's shoulder. We were walking near a sewer system. "Phew, it stinks out here."  
  
"Ty, stop changing the subject. Your mind wanders way too much. I can't keep up with it." Frances brushed her hair out of her eyes. I remembered how she had always done that when we were at Manticore, when her hair had grown so quickly and wildly.  
  
I took a deep breath. "Okay, so, I'll give it to you straight, from the beginning. I got out, heard the shots, went back, but I saw bodies being taken out. I thought they were you." Frannie nodded for me to go on. "I lived in the US for a while, then lived in France for two years. A few months back, Zack came --"  
  
"Zack?" Frannie broke in. "X5-599? Where does he come into this?" She gave me a look that plainly said she was lost.  
  
"He's Mom's brother . . . Mom is Max . . . X5-452 . . . we met about three years ago, but I had to leave because Zack told me he saw D-Deck 'round and I didn't want Mom or Dad in danger . . . so I went to France."  
  
"You don't make much sense," Frannie told me.  
  
"I never do," I said. "Now, anyway, Zack came, and he brought me to Martin. I-I, eh, I got your towns and did some searches. I found most of you, but you guys keep getting bounced from one home to another. When was the last time you actually spoke to Martin?"  
  
"About two and a half years ago. He didn't really talk much, just handed me a number. I've never used it. It is some sort of contact number that I am supposed to use when I am in trouble. I'm not in trouble, so I don't use it."  
  
I tipped my head to the right. "Right. I've got a new one. Use it the first of each month, just to check in, understand me? If I don't get a message from you by the third, I'm coming down and kicking your ass."  
  
Frances grinned. "So what now?"  
  
"I take you to a foster home in a town not too far away from here. You get a mom, dad, maybe even a dog, if they have one."  
  
"You've picked one out for me?" Frannie looked at me with her eyebrows raised.  
  
"Well, I have a couple here that look like good prospects. I do have one I'm favoring . . . but, eh, you do have a choice if you totally hate them. Take one last look at your school, 'cuz we're leaving."  
  
"Just like that?" Frances gasped. "I mean, I don't get to go t.p. some lockers and stencil out goat f**ker on the principal's car?"  
  
I stared at her. God help me, she wasn't kidding. I wondered which deity would help me the quickest. I was about to reply when she turned to go back to the school.  
  
"I'll just get my stuff," she said to me. What in the world was she doing? She had at best backpack and a locker at school and there was nothing important that could be carried there. I followed her reluctantly.  
  
Frances jogged down to the corridors quietly, skipping the entrance to the office and just slinking into the hall marked HOME ECONOMICS, FEAST, PHYS. ED. A tone sounded seven times -- where had bells gone? -- and suddenly the doors burst open and kids streamed out. Frances ducked inside a room and came out a few minutes later with her backpack, a what looked tennis racket, and a large sports bag.  
  
"Still following?" she called back. I nodded, silently promising myself that I'd stop behaving like a small child in the face of my superiours. She stopped at a locker, twirled the lock, took out books and put them in her sports bag. She reached in a few more times and brought out more books. Finally she took out a folder and started taking down pictures. I think my mouth closed after a minute, but I wasn't so certain.  
  
"FRANCINE! Girl! What you doin'?" I heard somebody exclaim. My eyes must have gotten a lot bigger, but I hadn't a mirror handy to check. I walked over to Frances. She was currently being mauled by a large, dark haired girl. Please, let it be an assignation attempt, I prayed. I tapped Frances on the shoulder.  
  
"Frannie, we gotta go," I told her. Frances gave me a cocky half grin, but I knew she would follow me. I sort of felt like 666 at that moment, not like Tyronica, and I knew that Frances would pick up on that.  
  
"Girl, who you?" the girl turned around and I noticed an odd scar below her left eye. It looked like she'd tripped and hit her head on the stairs or something.  
  
"Tyronica," I said, turning to leave.  
  
"NO WAY!" the girl's voice was loud and echoed oddly in the full hall. "You cannot be my homegirl Frannie's sister!"  
  
"And why not?" I demanded, my blood suddenly hot.  
  
"Kim," Frances said, her voice iced with warning. I couldn't help but grin. Now Frannie was the one who was uncomfortable.  
  
"I mean . . . I assumed . . . Tyronica . . . well . . . you aren't black," Kim explained. "Tyronica is a black name if I ever heard one, and, girl, you as white as they come."  
  
"Did it ever," I asked, my eyes filling with tears and my nose beginning to run, "*ever* occur to you that I might be an albino." I began to sniffle. I grabbed Frannie and started jogging down the hall.  
  
"I think you may be the first person to have ever shut Kim up so effectively," Frances said as we left the school as the last tone sounded. She paused, then added, "I didn't know albinos had freckles."  
  
"That just earned you the foster family on the other side of the state and the little boy named Francis," I told her. We stopped at in the parking lot near a dark red car.   
  
"Fine by me," Frannie said, getting her tennis racket out of it's jacket.  
  
  
"Who's car is this?" I asked as she walked to the windshield.  
  
"My tennis coach's car," she told me, swinging. "I don't like him." 


	15. Jose

Part .15

You know that feeling that somebody loves you a whole lot? You know that other feeling that even though they love you a whole lot, having you near them is painful? I think that's the way it was with Frannie. I left her off at the house, her new adoptive parents calling her Francie and showing her Frankie, and I couldn't help but see a sigh of relief on her face. If I hadn't have known better, I would have thought I had imagined it.

Frannie was just trying to be normal. With me there, she saw Manticore and all that wasn't normal about her. I knew the feeling. Zack gave me it to me. I supposed that was the reason that I wouldn't go near Zack. I would keep contact with Frannie down to a bare minimum.

I arrived home very late. I sat down on my couch, tired as hell, but knowing that I would have to stay up just a while longer before I went to sleep. I needed a bath -- heavens, yes I did -- and I needed to see if I had any messages in the mail.

Half-heartedly placing a wallet I had lifted off of some social elite while walking home from the station on the end table, I grabbed the stack of letters by the door where they had fallen and glanced through them. There wasn't very much. A postcard from Martin, postmarked Illinois, however the hell he did that, caught my attention, but nothing else of real importance. Wearily, I set the letters aside and took off my caught.

__

Impatient.

I glanced up. Had somebody spoken to me? I didn't hear anything else. It must have been my imagination. I put my coat on the hook and glanced down as the cat started rubbing himself on my left leg. "Cat," I said to him, "you are getting fur all over my pants." The damn thing ignored me, as usual.

__

. . . idiotic . . .

I stopped as I had began unbutton my blouse. It wasn't coming from the room. It was coming from outside. It was in my head. I began to tremble, not from seizure, but from fear. Whoever was there could penetrate my thoughts so easily that it scared the bejeezus out of me. I hadn't heard in so many weeks, so many months, that having my peace interrupted so suddenly made me so honestly frightened that I wanted to scream, roll into a ball, and be whoever it was to leave me alone and stop calling me a silly child . . . wait . . .

__

Ty needs to stop refusing to see me and come to . . .

My senses? Hell no. It was Zack. The bastard. Okay, how far away would he be at the moment? I wanted to calculate, I honestly did, but having him try to see me, after I had expressed my desire not to, made me so angry I was seeing red. I was now not going to even think about him if I could help it. I was just trying to get on with my life and he just wanted to drag me back down. Well, not this babe, mister.

__

And yet it seems . . .

I looked around for a handy window I could shimmy down. I spotted a perfect one almost immediately; the fire escape. I slinked out of the window onto it. It was a little rusty and admittedly old, but it held my weight -- not that I weighed a good deal, or anything -- sufficiently to allow me to quickly scamper down the thing and into the alleyway.

I peeked over the corner of the building and saw him enter. Serves him right, always blaring his thoughts for me to read as if he were a newsstand that I should pick up and glance over. Unfair to me. I started jogging down the street, gleefully aware when Zack opened the door to my apartment and found nobody in it.

I found myself at the park. I don't know why. It was always the park I had played it; had thought in; but I hadn't gone back to it after the Temi user. I didn't figure that I needed to be there for a while. However, my subconscious mind made up a decision without me and left me in a bind.

There were a lot of people there. I wondered if a school had let out early for the day or maybe was on a daytrip as an end of the term sort of thing. However, I didn't see so many kids there as I saw adults. Lots of adults wearing dark and bright colors. Gangs . . . I veered toward the left, not wanting to interrupt their going ons.

"Hey!" somebody called out. I stopped a turned, bored, and a little bit cold. Damnit all to hell, I had forgotten to put on my jacket. I was an idiot. The person who had spoken was young, but looked very old. His face was scared and he was missing an eye. I viewed him, bored, waiting for him to speak. "Why are you coming around here?"

"Thought I'd take a little ride on the swings, but it looks like they're occupied," I said icily. Come on, man, leave me alone and let me go on and let me find something else to do. "So I thought I'd leave and try another park."

"A little girl like you shouldn't be coming around here, you know that, don't you?" the man slid up to me and placed his hand on my head in an affectionate manner. Either he was perv, or he had a daughter that looked like me. I didn't care either way. I stood there, waiting for him to continue. "Especially after one of Big Jesus's men got killed the couple weeks back."

That piqued my interest. It couldn't be . . . "Killed?" I asked, starring at the men shouting at each other, waving empty hands around in the air. There were too many plainclothes policemen, I realized -- as did they -- to start a fight. They knew when a bystander was a bystander and when he was a cop that couldn't be bought.

"Yeah, some Temi beat him pretty bad. Took off a finger." The boy traced a finger around my ear. I ignored his actions.

"I done heard he got whack on Temi himself 'fore anyone try to hurt him. I done heard he picked a fight." The man's fingers tightened around my ear and squeezed the lobe between then. I swatted him away. "Hey, stop it . . . " I paused, searching for a name if he had given me one.

"Jose."

"Jose. Stop it. It hurts." To prove my point, I started to reach up to give him a turn on the ear. I realized, halfway there, he hadn't any. "Boy, you done got yourself pretty beat up."

"Uh huh."

"So, uh, you want me to stay away from the park because some Temi got beat by another and theys set to scalp anyone who sneezes wrong?" I asked.

"Uh huh." I began to laugh. He whirled me around to face him. "What's so funny?"

"I was just thinking about this joke, right? See, there was this gang man, right?" I spoke in the rhythm of the streets, different from what Mom and Cindy spoke, in a way of its on. "See, he's with one of his honeys. She just gave him another pup, right? So, there he his, checkin' out the kid, makin' sure it ain't no deformed sucka, you know what I'm saying?" Jose nodded, so I continued. "Then the gang man done hears somethin'. So he leans toward the baby and waits for it to make noise again. It does. It says 'mother' and when the gang man hears that he rush to his honey and he call out, 'Hey! The baby just said half a word!' you know?"

Jose laughed and let go of my shoulders. "You're all right for a little girl," he told me. "Come back when you're grown up, sister."

I walked away without reply. Then I stopped, walked back to steps, and called out, "You can count on it." I walked towards the streets and the basketball courts I knew that were a little while down the road. You can't ever have to many guys playing basketball on a court at once. Even if there are a million of them, they will still divide the team up and play, just for the sake of it.

i watched for a while, watching as they passed the ball back and forth between each other. Suddenly, the ball came out and hit somebody in the head. Ouch. That had to have hurt his nose.

{vivid thoughts}

I'm playing basketball with Case. The boy is getting pretty good. His speed his quick and his agility is well past mine. "Go easy for your old man, boy," I tell him as I lean over my knees. I wonder if he will or if he'll ignore me. He just grins.

I stand up straight and race toward him, successfully stealing the ball away from him. I dribble back out of the key from where Case had been trying to make a lay-up and make a jump shot. It hits the rim and bounces off, right towards Case. I watch, almost in slow motion, as it hits him right in the face.

"Holy . . ." I say, running. "Case, how is your nose? Is your nose okay?" I try to pull his hand away from his face in an attempt to look at his nose.

"Dad," he says, moving his hand down, "my nose is fine."

{/vivid thoughts}

I sighed. Another Casey Billings memory. They were starting to get on my nerves. Hadn't I enough trouble without some workaholic invading my mind like some sort of pest? I needed a roach motel for these foreign memories of his. Well, Casey Billings can just go suck it, because once a memory has entered the cabinet I'm putting them in, it isn't coming out. God, he must have been right on top of me when I tore down that wall.

I walk home slowly, enjoying my time out even if it is freezing cold and my arms are starting to goose bumps. I figured Zack had to be out of my house by now -- I wouldn't sit and wait for two and a half hours just to talk to somebody who didn't want to see me -- so I felt pretty safe in entering through the front door.

I was right. He wasn't there. I noticed another letter on top of the ones on the table. There was just my name on it, written in a soft, feminine script. It had to be from my mother, though I didn't remember her handwriting looking like that. She must have come in and found me not home and left a note. I tore it open and, out of habit, glanced down at the signature.

Zack had written it. I closed the letter without reading another line and balled it into a rumpled piece of parchment. I didn't need to be reminded of anything he wanted to remind me of.


	16. Click

A/N: I got bored and I want to finished this story as soon as possible, so, eh, here you go!! Have fun. It's short, but at least it's another chapter, no? I cut out MORE of the chapters and I think I've got it down to a managable thirty-four -- one less than T1!! :)  
  
::Karen does jig::  
  
Part .16  
  
I was down to three siblings. It seemed surprising, only three left for me to help and fix. I suppose I was thinking back when I was commanding officer of forty children, not five. Times change. I didn't like the changes.  
  
I decided that I'd follow my usual plan and go with the one who was closet to Seattle. I opened up my book and reviewed the notes in it. There was Ally in Arkansas; Miki was somewhere in New Hampshire, which I hadn't remembered as a state merely because I thought there wasn't a 'p' somewhere in there; and there was Lezli living in Texas.  
  
Perhaps I'd go after Alan first. After all, Arkansas wasn't that much further than Texas, and I liked the idea of seeing my handsome older brother again. I could just picture it then, Alan with all those girls fawning over him. It would be like Pierre back in France. God, Pierre had been beautiful.  
  
I sighed. I couldn't, in good conscience, go off and get Ally before I went after Lezli. I hated myself for being fair, but I knew that I'd be guilty every time I thought of it if I didn't go after Lezli first.  
  
I logged onto my computer and checked for Lezli in . . . I tried to recall what the name of the town where she was last recorded was called. Ah -- Snape, Texas. I typed in the information the program required and sat back and waited.  
  
Ping. It had a match. I almost gasped. Bringing up the file, I glanced through it. There she was, in a black and white photo. She didn't look quite like I remembered. There was still fire in her eyes, and she was smiling broadly, which was more than I could ever remember, but she didn't look as menacing as when I was a young child. The strong resemblance between her and Cleopatra was actually surprising and satisfactory. Cleopatra hadn't been known for her beauty. Not that Lezli was exactly homely or anything, but she had the same strong features of Cleopatra.  
  
Okay, so she was a good deal more attractive than Cleopatra. I would bet that her red hair and bright green eyes would attract a lot of attention, also. It was kept basically short, from what I could tell in the picture, but long enough to be easily pulled back.  
  
Closing my eyes, I pressed the print button, then swiveled on my chair to the phone and grabbed it. Pressing speed dial, I spoke into the phone when I heard the click of it being picked up.  
  
"Look, it's Ty. I've got --" I began, speaking quickly because I didn't feel like wasting time at the moment, my eyes on Lezli's face.  
  
"Hewwo?" a high-pitched voice said in a decided lisp. I cringed. Wasn't it the Qeleigh one who had the lisp? I paused, trying to figure out what to say. "Hewwo?" Uh, let's see, Ty, I thought, just ask for --  
  
Click.  
  
The little bugger had hung up on me. Furious, I pressed the button again. I heard the phone being picked up, and then the unmistakable click of it being hung up again. Redial. Click.  
  
I hung up the phone and county to thirty. It would take at least that long for whoever it was to leave the phone and go to the bathroom or to crawl under a desk or something.  
  
Redial. La de da de -- "Hello?" It was Mom. Thank goodness. If I had gotten that little brat one more time I would have screamed. I was not in a good mood at the moment -- I didn't need somebody goofing off and ruining my evening even more.  
  
"Mom, it's Ty," I said. I guess the relief sounded in my voice because Mom laughed. What in the world was she laughing for? I didn't find anything amusing at the moment. I glared at the cat, who was licking himself on the bottom. Remind me to never let him drink out of my cup again, I said to myself.  
  
"Didja just call like four times?" she asked. "I'm sorry, Qelby was supposed to be down for her nap. I thought somebody was prank calling. Then I caught her standing by the phone with a determined look on her face. She's done it before, I swear, I should lock her in the room, but I'm afraid something will happen, and, well, you know."  
  
"Uh," I said. This wasn't what I was calling for. I didn't care about some stupid kid and the fact that she went crazy near a phone. I was calling about . . . what in the world was I calling about? Oh yeah, I was going to tell her that I was going to be out of town for a bit while I went down to Texas and rearranged Lezli. I also needed a foster family. "I, uh . . ."  
  
"Ty . . . Earth to Ty," Mom said, laughing. "What is up with you lately? Your conversational skills have been zip! Not that they were anything special to begin with. You were one track army girl who wanted to blow up aliens."  
  
"Can I talk to Dad?" I asked, swatting at the cat. Mom really shouldn't have brought up Zack again. Couldn't she stop thinking about him? She was almost obsessive.  
  
Wait. She wasn't talking. What happened? Had I insulted her? I wanted to speak with Dad, that's all! It wasn't like I had told her right out that Zack was a topic that was off-subject and she knew very well and she'd better stop it or I'd pound the phone into my keyboard which would delete the information I had on Lezli.  
  
I kept quiet also, waiting for her to speak. I didn't have to wait long. I could have waited longer, but not much longer. I didn't have the best patience in the world. Then again, neither did Mom.  
  
She cleared her throat. "Uh, yeah. I'll go get him. Just a sec." Mom put down the phone and I could hear her very distinctly getting up and walking away. When the footsteps paused, I inferred that Dad had been in the kitchen. Good thing, because I'm sure if Mom had been in the kitchen the kids would have lost more weight.  
  
Click.  
  
Oh, bloody hell. Not again. I cursed very creatively, then hit redial. The kid was going to get hurt, and soon. 


	17. Whirling Leaves

::Karen does dance:: Whoo-hoo! I really like chapter eighteen!! So guess what? You'll probably get that pretty soon!! You guys had better REVIEW! I'm not getting ANY! I'm posting a storm and I get, "Oh, yeah, really?" START REVIEWING!!  
  
I did a MAJOR revamp of my Ty outline and Brittany -- WHO DOESN'T WATCH DARK ANGEL! -- gave me the most AMAZING idea ever and I love her to death and I'm calling her and offering to have her children for her so she doesn't get stretch marks. ::sends love to Britterz::  
  
So now I had 31 -- THIRTY-ONE! -- chapters of Ty instead of 58. ::grins:: I so rock. :)  
  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~   
  
Part .17  
  
The plane I took was relatively un-crowded. Not wanting to draw attention to myself by flying in first class, I took a nice second class seat. I was a bit spiffed, however, to see that I had a middle seat when I specifically requested aisle. I wanted to be aisle so that when something went bad, I would be able to reach the emergency exit that much sooner. Climbing over the fat guy who was sitting in *my* seat didn't sound like a good idea. Besides, the jerk would probably complain.  
  
As I was sitting between the bony broad and the fat guy, both of whom kept elbowing me with respectively sharp and huge limbs, I was filled with what most certainly can be described as snakes in my stomach. I was very apprehensive about meeting Lezli, to say the least.  
  
I guess it was the amnesty of our last meeting that really drove me nuts. She had decidedly gone against my orders to her and the group, and that had lead me to thinking that they were dead for three years. Three years of me not knowing that they were alive; three years of hurting and missing them.  
  
She was a vicious girl. I remembered the flames in her eyes and the venom in her voice and I shivered. She was one to worry about, with wits that would surprise the best of us; even me. It wasn't that she was especially smarter than us, because she wasn't exactly. It was just the fact that if you ever got into a screaming match with her, she would out do you.  
  
Not that we ever had more than a few opportunities for a screaming match. We usually kept our voices done. There were a times when, knowing that if it came to blows we would both get into immense trouble, she had started yelling and yelling and I had yelled back a few things. I, of course, had gotten into trouble. As commanding officer I needed to keep in control of group.  
  
When the lady with the cart and the ugly outfit came out offering beverages, I grabbed myself a margarita. She looked at me as if to admonish me and take back the drink, but I gave her a cold stare and she left me alone. She left muttering to herself about losing her job serving alcohol to preteens and she didn't mind giving kids a few drinks now and then if they had at least hit puberty.  
  
Well, she ought to go down to New Orleans or San Francisco one of these days. They have strippers there eleven, twelve years old, and no telling how old the prostitutes are under all that make-up and, in the case of San Francisco, leather. Perhaps she herself had been one. She had a nice figure and would probably make a few bucks, maybe even a little more if she got rid of the jiggly around her thighs. Then again, men paid good money for those that jiggly.  
  
I had five more margaritas by the time the flight ended. I was disappointed to not get drunk. Oh, I had a slight buzz going and all, but I just kept going and going with the drinks and I knew I wasn't drunk. Idiotic Manticore had taken away my ability to have fun. I wondered if Mom had that and drank for the hell of it, or if she honestly got more than this slight warming of the middle.  
  
I went to a sleazy Motel Nine to sleep it off. It wasn't Motel Six, by any standards, but if I told the roaches which side of the room was theirs I knew that I wouldn't have any problems. I pulled down the covers to check for critters, then I took a nice, cold shower. It wasn't really by choice; the motel didn't offer any hot water. It was okay, though, and I got my hair washed.  
  
I woke up the next morning with absolutely no hangover at all, not even a little one. Sort of disappointing. I wanted the experience of feeling utterly and completely horrible for drinking and ruining my liver. Instead, I felt lively after a nice night's sleep. Manticore even took away my punishments. I shook my head in disgust. I wondered, briefly, if my body's ability to morph and change would mutate me somehow so that I could accept more and more and more alcohol. It was an interesting theory, and one that I was willing to try out later on.  
  
I had to go pee really, really bad. As soon as I was out of bed, I rushed into the bathroom and went. I discovered then the downside to drinking -- my body flushed out the 'bad' fluids as quickly as possible from its system. (A/N: funny typo -- I had written 'p-i-s-s-i-b-l-e'). That whole drinking until I passed out didn't seem all that appealing to me anymore. I'd be on the toilet for the rest of my life.  
  
Well, it was time to get Lezli. All I had to do is walk into the group home and get her. It was as simple as that and it couldn't really go wrong. I packed up my bag and checked that all of my tickets and things hadn't walked off in the night, then I paid for the room. They overcharged me, probably because they thought I was too young to notice, or perhaps care, but I didn't point that out.  
  
The walk to the home was decent. The day was okay and all, but there wasn't any salt in the air. It wasn't at all like walking in Seattle, a stone's throw away from the beach. I even missed all the smog that it provided, seeing as all how the interesting smells always traveled there. I only had to kick two or three streetbums out of the middle of the sidewalk which was a real relief from Seattle, though.  
  
Lezli wasn't there. When I handed the note that I had written up all nice and pretty to the man at the front desk, he typed in a few commands into his old, rackety computer, and then shook his head.  
  
"I'm sorry," he said, "but that enrollment ran away about a year ago." My mouth hung open and I started breathing very quickly. "She left a note . . . I'd let you read it, but it really is inappropriate for someone your age." I turned without saying anything to the man and I left the building, my worry building.  
  
What if Manticore had come and taken her? What if she had gone out and then gotten hurt? Even if she was a PA-1, she could get hurt. Her psychic abilities were no where near as powerful as mine, and mine were limited to hearing thoughts and searching out memories.  
  
Or what if she had just left on her own accord and was out someplace having the time of her life? What if she wasn't in any trouble at all, but just kickin' back and melting into the Americana that everyone dreamed about? I began to get very angry at this and I grabbed a tree near me, gasping in my anger.  
  
I first noticed the leaves whirling around me as a sort of afterthought to catching my breath. I brushed them away from my face and out of my hair, but there was more to be found. They were crunchy and pointy; they got into my eyes and mouth. Glancing up, I tried to go out of the confinements of the trees.  
  
That's when I noticed that there weren't any other leaves blowing. The leaves around me were in a whirlwind of their own, but there weren't any others. In fact, I couldn't even remembering noticing a gust of wind before this one. It worried me. I began breathing erratically, trying to find a normal explanation for it.  
  
Going down the street in a ragged jog, I tried to get rid of the leaves and dirt and twigs that were flying -- less noticeably, but still flying -- around me. When it continued in my way, I went to a tree and leaned my head against it.  
  
I have to calm down, I thought, and now. Just calm, Ty, and you'll figure this out. You got angry, very angry, and things started flying around you. Did that ever happen to you before?  
  
Yes, it had happened to me before. Except I had been intentionally trying to make the objects -- bundles and bags of equipment -- fly over and above the fence that I was working with. Lord help me, my temper brought out the kinetics in me.  
  
I don't want it, I thought, almost crying. I just wanted to be normal and to have a family and to know that all my brothers and sisters are okay. Instead, I had lost one of my siblings and I knew she was gone forever because that's how she was; Lezli was either back at Manticore or she was fending for herself.  
  
I stood up straighter and the things in the air dropped. I wasn't going to waste my time over Lezli. If she wanted to be found she would be found, and in the mean time I would leave Martin's contact number open, in case she did call. I rather hoped she didn't call until I wasn't angry with her anymore.  
  
Resignedly, I began my trek back to the airport. I would go home empty handed perhaps, but I would go home with new knowledge and understanding that maybe Dad would be proud of. Hell, even my other Dad would be proud of it. I comprehended my enemy -- what more could I say?  
  
Only about four miles from the airport, where my plane was scheduled for about six hours from then, I saw a huge beehive. There were tons of flowers all around and there were also lots of trees. It was the perfect country for it.  
  
{vivid thoughts}  
  
Where in all of the hell was David? I need him to get the report on my desk, now! I can't start this video without the file and if I don't start the video within the next twenty minutes I will get very angry. I am supposed to be looking for similarities for THE PROJECT and if I don't get a chance to view my data then I won't be able to finish in time.  
  
Not that I exactly have a deadline. I take out my files and I view them again. There was the reports for the two shootings I had seen already -- the first one had been wrong, I remember. Idiotic David had gotten me the wrong shooting. I didn't need the wrong shooting, I needed the correct one.  
  
Perhaps I'll fire him soon. I need to train someone to take his place. Yes, that was a thought. Oh, here he comes now, David and the papers. I take them.  
  
"Took you long enough," I sneer in his general direction, not looking up. His reply is hard to understand and I snap at him to speak up louder. "Or am I just going deaf?"  
  
"Sir," he says, "I got stung by a bee on my nose and it's swelling up. I need to go to the hospital. I'm allergic to bees." I give him an indifferent wave with my hand and then turn on my television and insert the DVD.  
  
How does the May 22nd movement tie into all of this? I think idly, writing down some surface observations on a pad of paper that I had with me. I stopped mid-sentence, grabbed my remote, and back the disc up.  
  
Yes, there he was. By damn God, there was that crip from the wrong shooting. He sure as hell travels the city real well, don't he? Why in hell would he exchange himself for a bunch of stupid genetics people?  
  
Ah, well, who the hell cares? Time to get back on to THE PROJECT  
  
{/vivid thoughts}  
  
I stopped where I was and sat near the side of the road, ignoring the pieces of litter that were scattered everywhere. Dad -- Logan -- definitely had a right to know about this memory. This Casey Billings was beginning to bother me; though I had thought that I was done with him after almost five months of nothing from him.  
  
Why in the world did he always make me see it as THE PROJECT and not just The Project or the project? What so was so important? And why did all of his tapes seem to tie into Dad? There was something fishy going on and I wasn't liking the place where it was headed.  
  
Get rid of one problem, come up with another. I just needed to turn fourteen, find Ally, and get rid of the nuisance of Casey Billings. I could probably do that on my own. I wouldn't worry Dad with all my junk while he was probably trying to raise his kids and save the world at the same time.  
  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~   
  
REVIEW! REVIEW! REVIEW! REVIEW! LoL! I miss my reviews!! ::does the basic puppy thing:: Reviews just ain't what they used to be. Even Cat has threatened to withhold chapters if you guys don't amp it up. (Almost put her real name in there! Too bad I don't stalk her anymore, huh?)  
  
I FREAKIN' LOVE THE NEXT CHAPTERS!  
  
Okay:  
  
18 -- You will all love me. ;)  
19 -- interesting factoids, so so  
20 -- You will all hate my guts forever and ever.  
21 -- You will know it's coming, but still hate me  
22 -- sweet, pretty-ish, sadish  
23 -- I expect to be crowned ruler in several small islands for it  
24 -- so-so, vaguely important to story (same as 19 . . .)  
25 -- I won't live through the night!  
26 -- VERY NERVOUS (might be combined with 25 to make sure they're long enough)  
27 -- ::snickers::  
28 -- Major cliffhanger, major funny. (Thanks for the lines, Jacka**!)  
29 -- Major angst. ;)  
30 -- ::snickers::  
31 -- Enders -- fun! Great! You'll love me. 


	18. A Dangerous Situation

Author: || Karen Murray || Little One || Dolly Snippet || Marta || MTV || ATM || X5-666 ||  
  
Author's Note: To heck with finding the final beta'd version. I'm too lazy. Be happy. And remember that you're lucky to get them. I don't like this chapter. I like I think it's four chapters from now. No, maybe it's two. I'd have to check. It's something.  
  
  
  
Part .18  
  
A Dangerous Situation  
  
I love computers. I love the way they have monitors that sort of glare at you while you're pounding away on the keyboard. I love the way that they crash at the most inopportune times, almost as if they know that what you're starting to save at that exact moment is important.  
  
It's no wonder that we get along so well, computers and I. We're both alike. Contrary, hateful little beasts. I rather like being a contrary, hateful little beast, actually. It gets me things from my mother and my father when just being a spoiled brat doesn't help. The computer has never been a spoiler brat. The computer is always just as I described. It's dependable.  
  
So I couldn't understand why the damn computer wasn't giving up its information. We were brethren! We were made of the same cloth. So why was it failing me in my search for Mikaele? I took the machine's inability to locate Miki personally. After two days of searching for Mikaele, I was about at my wit's end. Even taking the occasional break to look for other siblings in the system was nothing compared to the long task of nothingness from her. I decided to give Daddy a ring.  
  
"Hello?" Third ring. Dad was breathless: perhaps he'd been chasing after one of the twins. I could hear one of the children screaming for a frog. I paused. A frog? Since when does a child want a frog? I mean, there was that old story about kissing a frog and him turning into a prince, but didn't you have to be a princess with a golden ball given to you by your adoring papa? "Hello?"  
  
Uh, right, Ty. You need to speak. That is usually what happens during phone conversations. Just standing there with your mouth open doesn't exactly work very well. "Hey, Daddy," I said brightly. Could I have sounded any more 90210? Ugh! I shrugged it off. "I'm just working on the whole location thing for Mikaele. The big problem hampering my New Hampshire research is the fact that I can't locate her. It's like Martin checked up on her once, then ignored her."  
  
"So you're looking for some help?" Dad asked. D'uh, Daddy. No, I just like calling my parents and complaining about things when I know that they can't help me. I like the sound of my voice when it's complaining. I have a very nice voice.  
  
"Uh-huh." Perhaps the second voice that had joined the first was the thing that caused my Daddy's brain cells to play hide-and-seek. Knock-knock, no one's home! I quietly closed my eyes and envisioned playing search and destroy with the twins -- preferably being on the destroy end of the game.  
  
"What's the information that you have?" asked Dad. I rattled off the things he needed word for word -- I am good for some things from my Manticoreling status -- and began telling him of some of the work that I had been occupied with for the past few weeks. In the background, underneath the half-laughter half-sobbing of the children, I could hear the rhythmic clinking of the keys as he performed searches on databases. My mother never liked to listen to me typing. She said that I worked the keys to quickly and never had a slow rhythm going like my dad had.  
  
Twenty boring as hell minutes later, we still had absolute nothing to go on for Mikaele's location, other than Martin's short notes on her. Impatiently, I slammed some notes down on the end table next to the phone. I think Daddy heard me on the other end, because I could have sworn that I had heard him jump. "Know what?" I asked. "I'm gonna try again later. Today I'll take a plane and visit Alan."  
  
"Uh," Dad said. Monosyllabic much, Daddy? Sighing, I opened up a fresh leaf of notebook paper and began to scrawl ALAN on it in fancy script. Underneath I took out the address I had found on Ally and waited for Dad to talk more. "Do you even have his information? For all we know he could be another fruitless chase."  
  
"Yeah, Daddy, I already have his address. I got a little bored and did a search and up he popped. Not the best of things, to find him so quickly, but there are a ton of kids with the name Alan and the variant spellings of it in the foster care system. Plus, I had his last home and last name to work with." I searched my desk for some chicklets. I was certain I had spilled a packet earlier that week, hadn't I? There had to be at least a few left around. "Let's face it Daddy, I'm gonna go anyway. I gotta 'nuff for a plane ticket and a place to stay while there, though I don't think I'll need it."  
  
"Ty," Dad's voice was tired. When had he gotten old on me? Two minutes ago he was chasing twins. Now it sounded like he didn't have the strength to fart without assistance. "I think you should slow down." Oh, and do you feel cool, Daddy, because I'll put on sweater if you do. No matter that it is a fairly warm July day, Dad. I glanced out the window. Okay, so, it was raining. It wasn't a bright July day anymore. It was a dreary Seattle day again. "You've already found two siblings. Your mother couldn't find any of her siblings for over ten years. Just space it a little. I know how excited you are, but with the disappointment over Lezli, I don't want you to go gallivanting off for more." I frowned. I still wasn't over my freak occurrence with the leaves in Texas.  
  
I found a red tickled and put it in with my paper clips. "Daaa-addy," I drawled out in my best little-girl-who-is-unfairly-treated voice, "Mama didn't have a little black book telling her where everyone was. I do." Can't find Lezli or Mikaele, but I will, I said silently. And I will find Alan because I have a good feeling about it.  
  
"Ty, I worry about you." I groaned. I didn't really want to be worried about. I wanted him to need me, but not to worry about me. I wasn't a worry- attracting person. "Don't roll your eyes and groan, Tyronica." I didn't roll my eyes! "No matter how good your revved up genes are, you're still a little girl, barely a teenager."  
  
Little girl? I frowned and picked up two more chicklets. The rain had stopped, I noticed. "Dad!" I said. I couldn't think of much else to say. What is there to say to your dad when he basically says he thinks of you like you're ten and having a seizure on the beach? "Never mind." I hung up disappointed with the way things had gone. Unhappily, I tossed the three chicklets into my mouth as I began to make plans for a plane reservation.  
  
I stopped for a minute to open the window; it was getting pretty hot in there. I grabbed a band and lifted my hair up off my neck. I looked at my barcode sullenly in the mirror. I would get it burned off, I decided, as soon as I had the time to do so. The cat rubbed up against my leg and I absentmindedly gave him the rights to my hand. While I was up, I reasoned, I might as well get a glass of water.  
  
I sat down again and got the tickets purchased. I then began packing up a small overnight bag for the trip, all the while thinking about my brother Ally. Even as a toddler, Alan was a very comely boy. With large eyes and deliciously long lashes, his face held almost uncanny appearance for the beholder. With lips full, he looked to be a sullen child who hid beyond his lashes. That was not true, of course. Though he was never much of a talkative child, he had been congenial in all his actions.  
  
And he had been so beautiful.  
  
I wondered how he'd fared in the world. Where his easy-going ways hindering his ability to adapt to a life outside of home? Or was it perhaps helpful in making friends and allies beyond the forests of our youth? Perhaps his good looks had gotten him in an adoptive or foster home. Or perhaps the looks which in boyhood had been a blessing gave him now an overly feminine look which would dissuade him from trying to flash prospective parents and half-hidden look from under his lashes.  
  
Finished with my packing, I shouldered my bags and dropped a coat to my arm. Though it had been unusually warm earlier, one could never be too prepared. I wasn't certain that the rain wouldn't come back.  
  
I stopped suddenly. I sounded like a mother or something. I tossed the coat on the couch, successfully covering Cat, and walked down the stairs. Halfway down, I took out my gum, and stuck it under the rail. Grinning, I pictured Mrs. Lindenstein finding it on her way down to the mailboxes early tomorrow morning. She always gripped the rail tightly when she walked down, as if afraid that she would fall.  
  
By the time I'd biked to the airport, I was thoroughly drenched in a fine mist. I was still hot, but I could feel a chill begin to set. Great job, Tyron, I congratulated myself. You left your jacket at home just because of some silly, childish impulse not to act like your parents.  
  
I was in a bad temper as I settled myself on the plane. My seatmate tried to strike up a conversation at first, but I wasn't feeling real charitable towards her and she stopped after I took my fork from the nasty dinner they served and bent it in half. Perhaps she was thinking of her fingers being bent like that; I know I was. In any account, she grinned nervously and shut up.  
  
The plane was smoldering. It reminded me of the fiery pits of Hades. Not that I'd actually been there. Though there was this one time in training when we were doing tests with little electric shocks where I am certain that I blacked out for a minute. Since I don't have a soul or anything, I'm pretty sure that I got sucked into the flames. I had probably been warming my little feet and grinning my head off, despite the heat. I had half a mind to complain about the air conditioning on the plane, but I changed my mind when the steward came out.  
  
He was hot. If you could get a group of men in a room and have them parade around in a swim wear to be judged by a panel of women on their hotness, he would have won the crown and roses. He had slim hips and broad shoulders -- how many times had I read about that and not understood what it *meant* until him? His eyes were so dark they might have been black for all I was aware and when he smiled, he blinded those closest to him with the wattage.  
  
I eyed him as he casually walked up and down the aisle, his tight little booty workin' it. I ordered more food, even though I wasn't hungry, just to see him walk to and from me again. Much better than that little stewardess tramp from that last flight I'd been on.  
  
The woman next to me opened her paper and blocked my line of vision. Glaring at the headline, I wondered why the crown prince of Britain, 27, had never looked particularly appealing to me beforehand. It was that little thing that tipped me off that something was wrong, because I had very definite memories of declaring forcefully to Mumma that he native country's prince reminded me of a horse with bad teeth.  
  
Oh. Dear. God. I was in heat. The blood rushed from my face in shock. I noticed immediately the big, tell tale signs that pointed in that direction. My reaction to the weather was one; my reactions to any and all females within range; my reaction to the little, beautiful, scrumptious body of the steward . . . .  
  
Bad Ty. Think about something else; something neutral. I stared at the paper, thinking how it was only an hour until the end of the flight; only an hour until I had to leave the sweet . . . I looked at each letter of the date, drawing it in my mind.  
  
J. U. N. E. 2. 4. 2. 0. 2. 4.  
  
Wait a minute. The twenty-fourth of June. This couldn't be happening to me. I was wrong. I had read it wrong. I glanced at the date again. June 24. Damn. I tapped on the woman's shoulder. Be useful, I silently thought to myself, before I have to rip your head off.  
  
"Excuse me," I said as politely as I could to the vicious little trollop, "but is that today's paper?"  
  
The woman looked at me down her ugly little nose for a moment as if she was trying to figure out if I was talking to her. Well, d'uh, lady, I just hit ya on the shoulder. Finally, she answered me, which was good for her health because two seconds more and I would have taken the paper and used it to wrap the pieces of her body in.  
  
"Yes."  
  
I sat back, frowning. Great. Today had been a wonderful day. I got into a fight with my daddy, I behaved in a childish manner, I was in heat, and I'd forgotten it was my fourteenth birthday.  
  
Happy birthday to me. Happy birthday to me. Happy birthday Tyronica Cale. Happy birthday to me. 


	19. A Door Ajar

Part .19  
  
Two days. Two days of sitting in some idiotic room, waiting for my body to stop betray me and to get back on track with the whole, Hey! It's a guy! Let's hurt him! theme of life. Two days of stretching out on a too soft bed that sags in the middle, trying to keep my mind off of dangerous topics . . . and danger in dangerous topics. Topics that weren't usually on my top ten list of things I thought about suddenly dominated my thoughts. It was very, very horrible for me. And oh so very good.  
  
I managed to keep my mind off of the forbidden topics by watching public television and the news. If watching Generation Teletubbies wasn't enough to calm me down, I reasoned, then Po wasn't worth the stuffing put into her fat little head. Besides, I thought that the openly gay Teletubby -- Tinky- Winky -- was sort of cool. He had a rockin' purse and purple is a color that looks good on everybody. (Well, except ugly people. You know who you are, don't you? You go to put on a purple or even lavender shirt and you drop it in a heap on the floor, because you know it's useless. You are just too ugly to look good in purple.)  
  
I walked back and forth near the end of the second day, trying to not turn into a giant tubber. Root vegetables are not my type of me. Across my room over and over again, I walked. Half asleep, I listened to the news drone on and on with the volume on the television set just high enough to annoy the skank ho next door with the kids who were doing the doorbell ditch thing.  
  
It scared me when it happened. One minute the television was on to the station with all of those really ugly old broads who wouldn't have tempted me if I was in a heat ten-thousand times worse and wore too much rogue and the next minute there was this really loud pop and the TV was dead. Okay, dead might not be the best way to describe it. It sort of went FIZZLE and then the screen turned bright blue and it was then all static-y. The things I had sitting on the TV -- a hairbrush, several hair ties, and a tube of lip gloss -- were all floating -- (or would it be levitating?) -- several inches above it.  
  
Slowly, I walked over to the television and studied my predicament. Obviously -- in my mind, at least -- there was some sort of electric current keeping the objects in the air. I reached over and touched the television; nothing happened. I reached down and yanked the plug out of the wall, waiting for the items to drop with soft plunks on the set. They didn't even thud down. I wondered if, perhaps, I had something to do with it.  
  
Breathing suddenly thickly, I closed my eyes and tried to see the door that I had locked months -- or was it a year? -- ago. There it was, on the right. I could see it as plain as day. It was closed -- tentatively, I reached out and pushed slightly against the door, then jangled the handle. It didn't budge. It was still locked, then. Why, then, were these objects . . . . I looked further down the hall. There was a door there that I didn't remember. Or was it perhaps that it hadn't ever called attention to itself before? It stood ajar.  
  
Where had that come from? I strained my memory, trying to recall my lessons from home four years ago. Had there been another room there? I thought I'd dealt with one room -- it was only after I left the relative safety and normality of Manticore that I had gotten more than a few windows and a door. Was this new door interfering with the locks on my many other doors? I tested them, going down the hall silently, pushing slightly on the doors that were shut; checking how wide the openings were in the ones left unchecked; turning the handles on the ones that were locked. They all were as I had left them. Good, then, the new one wasn't hurting anything.  
  
Lookethere. I had a new room to play in. One that didn't mess with thoughts. It was a room where I didn't have to worry about the wrong memories flooding me. It would be fun . . . and it would be a distraction. Enthusiastic? No, not quite enthusiastic. Bored to tears? Yes. That was what bothered me.  
  
How had I done it? I certainly didn't consciously say, Oh, gee, let's get this thing working where things fly up around me. And while I'm at it, let's make it so that I can't control it; maybe something will go zooming towards someone and get them in the head. In fact -- and this'll be the kicker -- let's do it at random times in her life! I sighed. What exactly had triggered it? Let's see . . . I had been surprised, that's for sure. Sort of scared, actually, when the TV went kaboinks . . .  
  
Oh. My. Looking for Lezli. Leaves that had blown all around me with no apparent wind. The back of my mind scared. But mostly I was angry at Lez. Angry and frightened for her. These things had happened when I'd been emotionally drained -- or emotionally full, more like to say. I am such an idiot. I couldn't believe I hadn't noticed it beforehand! Maybe it had happened in Paris? What, was I some sort of Rainman? Why did I freak in' know some things and other things be totally dense about? When I was done with me, my mother wouldn't want to treat my wounds!  
  
Frustration at myself caused my hairbrush to burst. Suddenly it was hovering, it was flying. Pieces of plastic and metal went everywhere and I screamed a short bursting screech that a banshee would have been proud of and flung my hand in front of my face, expecting to be at the very least horribly disfigured and therefore never able to have fun during my heat.  
  
Nothing it me. I lowed my hand a fraction of an inch, still wary. I glanced around the room. I could see in a five foot circle around the television set -- embedded in the wall behind it, actually -- small pieces of the hairbrush littered all over the floor. It really looked sort of cool and for a moment I praised my art-y abilities. Then I turned and realized something was wrong. Behind me there were brush pieces on the floor -- and I mean directly behind me as well as to the side behind me. It was exactly as if I hadn't been there.  
  
How had that happened? I looked down at my arms and legs, searching for some . . . I don't know, some hurt on me. Something that would say that I was just imagining things and that I needed to stop imagining things or else I would get onto the track of imagining a certain steward without his . . . anyway, back to the original topic. I didn't find anything damaged on me. I just found me, unhurt. Me and nothing else.  
  
Creepy. I grinned. This was something interesting, no doubt about it. I had done something totally cool, I was sure of it. I wasn't quit certain what I had done, but that fact just made it ten times cooler. Without telling my mind what I was doing, my body had . . . done something to keep me safe from flying sharp stuff. I paused in my thinking. It would almost be like putting a stick in a small stream of water, how those things hadn't hurt me. The water went goes on either side of the stick out front and meets up again out back.  
  
But how? Did I somehow create a field of energy . . . I shook my head, grinning. Ty, I said to myself, you've been watchin' too many scifi flicks. Time to cut back on it. Time to turn off the good ol' television and read a book. No McCaffrey, King, or Card for you. Better stay away from the Brothers Grimm, too. They have a warped outlook on life.  
  
Carefully, I closed my eyes and looked down the hall at the rooms again. When I found the one with the door opened a bit, I nudged it closed. Then I reached up and snagged a window open. Just a crack open, but it was enough to let me shimmy in and play. I zipped forward to the very back, where I could feel my emotions surge at me, and shut some of the several window that were high up. I heard several thunks, and I knew that the floating thingies had dropped.  
  
Opening my eyes, I grinned. This was going to be so much fun. Some fun is just there -- fun, but not especially memorable. You know, like your mom taking your to the park every day. That's sure a lot of fun. But say your uncle takes you . . . anyway, it was gonna be fun. Ignoring the slight headache I had, I tried to lift up the television remote again. I waited with baited breath.  
  
Nothing happened. Careful to keep the windows to my emotions both closed and opened properly, I tried again. This time I concentrating very hard on lifting up the remote. Lift, lift, lift, I told it. Just move up. You can do it. I stared at the remote, willing it up. Behind my eyes, I began to get a pain. I winced, closing my eyes. Instead of the pain going away, like I thought it would, it sort of intensified. I clutched my head and groaned. This felt like somebody had attached some jumper cables to my ears and then revved it up.  
  
"Oh my God," I whimpered not-so-quietly. "This is not fair." I reached up toward the remote -- manually, not with the horrible headache-causingness -- and turned off the television. The sound had been up way too loud -- it had been pounding around and echoing in the empty hallways in my head.  
  
I walked slowly to the bed with my eyes half-closed and lay my head down on the ratty little pillow. I tried to sleep, tried to will it on myself like I had learned so long ago as a child back at Manticore. It wouldn't come. I couldn't clear my head, clear my thoughts. When I tried to enter the hallway with the doors, it was like a bright light was shining in there. I couldn't get comfortable enough to stay and do things.  
  
I settled back on my pillow with my head pounding, realizing that I had to just wait it out. Let me tell you, that is one of the most boring things in the entire world to do -- wait to fall asleep. Or, more accurately, waiting for your head to stop being the dance floor for overweight elephants -- who am I kidding? all elephants are overweight -- so you can pass out from sheer exhaustion from trying not to think about boys, boys, boys, and the occasion boys and girls when you were seriously hurtin'. I think I passed out maybe at four that morning.  
  
When I woke up that afternoon at like three, I was still pretty wiped out. I felt like I'd run miles and miles on the track back at home, trying to keep up with Ekko or Frannie. It was as if I was just getting over a bout of the flu. I was all wobbly-legged and stuff. My head only bounced, though, and it didn't throb at all. Okay, maybe a little when I saw up too fast.  
  
Since I wasn't exactly in the form to jump up and find Ally, I decided that it was the time for some serious thinking. I'm pretty good at serious thinking when I want to settle down and actually think. Of course, I usually don't want to think. That is probably why I get into so many stupid situations. I guess I can fix it, though, later on. I can always fix all my mistakes -- at least, the ones I wanna fix.  
  
Today was one of those days when I didn't want to settle down and think, though . . . it was one of those days when I wanted to play. It gave me pause when I realized that I wasn't in the mood to go and find something with three legs to play with. I grinned wildly. I had survived my first heat! I was so freakin' proud. I had done it all by my lone self and I was still intact! I hadn't torn out any hair or gotten unhymenally-challenged or anything! Score one for Tyron! Go Tyron! Icha birthday!  
  
I started giggling madly, falling back on my old nickname in my giddiness. Tyron -- I hadn't used that in forever, actually. Tyron . . . it sounded too much like tearin'. Not that it wasn't a great nickname, but I just hadn't used it in so long that I'd almost forgotten it was there. How'd that happen? I'm pretty sure here is where I got my Saint Bernard look. I have a pretty good one of those -- you'll have to check it out later, if you ever see me, which I doubt you will. I sort of get this puzzled look on my face that totally says, I'm not sure why I'm here, but I'm pretty sure I'm not supposed to be.  
  
{vivid thoughts}  
  
Gee-sus. H. Christ. There are a million old records on my desk! Why in the hell haven't they been taken care of? I can't believe the help around here! Doesn't anybody realize that I'm working on an important project? I sigh and pick up a folder labeled THE PROJECT. I snort. My project is so damn important, they call it just that. The Project. Sometimes I'm so damn important and so damn ignored I want to scream.  
  
These are the pictures of that crip from that wrong shooting! Damnit, can't anyone throw anything out here? I reach down and pick up the picture, ready to toss it away. I pause, though, and take a look at the crip's nose. Crip has a nice nose. I have a thing for noses. See, when I was a kid, I fell out of a tree and broke my damn nose. I like to watch noses now. They're pretty unique, you see.  
  
I sigh. I've been seeing this damn crip so much that's he's clouded my mind and kept me away from my project. I need to sleep and then kill David. Sounds like a plan to me.  
  
{/vivid thoughts}  
  
Immediately after Casey Billings sighed, I sighed. I was getting pretty peeved about the whole memory blocking disaster thing and the fact that he was so prominent in my freakin' head. He must have been like right next to me! I grabbed that memory as it flitted by and shoved it, roughly, into the one of the memory cabinet that lined the walls of the common room of my head. My starting point in everything. Just a room lined with cabinet filled with files of thoughts and memories, many of them not my own. And these are only the most accessible ones -- there are rooms filled with older ones that I don't need anymore, but are still just a door away.  
  
I like that feeling of power over my thoughts. I don't like it when Casey Billings enters it. Maybe, if he gets too close to Dad, I'll talk it over with my parents. Right now, though, I think I'll just keep it to myself. I'm okay on my own. I have been deft at it all my life, especially since I was eleven and I went to France with . . .  
  
The thing is, I take care of my siblings and I take care of myself, nothing more. I'm good at taking care of myself; good at taking care of others. I just have to figure out when taking care of others is a liability to taking care of myself. Then I'm perfect. I may be short, but by gosh I'm pretty damn good at what I do. 


	20. Decked Out

Author: || Karen Murray ||  
  
Disclaimer: || I own not Dark Angel, but I do own Ty, Bronze, Roan- Sullivan, Enrique, Mikaele, Lezli, Martin, Alan, Frances, all other PA-1s, all MA-1s, and the damn cats. ||  
  
Spoilers: || T1 spoilers from I & I and Camera ||  
  
Author's Note: || I'm excited; we're getting to better and better chapters. ||  
  
~ ! ~ * ~ ! ~ * ~ ! ~ * ~ ! ~ * ~ ! ~ * ~ ! ~ *  
  
Part .20  
  
I saw Alan the next day. It was by far the easiest one I did. I just walked up to a playground at a school and looked for him and saw him. He was so beautiful that it took my breath away. I have never seen anyone to rival his comeliness. Alan just has something to him that makes you want to love him. You see him and think to yourself that you will follow that beauty for years without rest.  
  
When Alan saw me, he knew me right away. It was really something to have him look across the playground where he was speaking to a group of boys around his age and have him smile at me. He came looping toward me, quickly, a big tall boy of almost seventeen years old. I couldn't help but get some tears in my eyes and I thought of the last time that I had seen him. I was barely scraping five-foot at age fourteen and here he was three years older, at least a foot taller than I was. I smiled through the hazing in my eyes and looked at him and saw something I treasured and feared at the same time. I saw a willing soldier.  
  
I took his hands in my own and pressed his fingers to my lips. "I thought you were dead," I said quietly. "My brother," I said. "You are so comely." I grinned and gave him a mock swoon. "If I had come three days ago, you wouldn't be safe from me," I teased. I saw that the jest was not lost on him and he raised his eyebrows, appraising me. I felt thrillingly cheap.  
  
I chided myself. This was not the thing to do. You do not develop crushes -- no matter how menial and no matter how soon after heat -- on your unit siblings. It just isn't done. Relationships within a group can lead to problems. I sighed and settled back on the present times. I knew that if I actually got to know Alan that I probably wouldn't give him a second thought. He hadn't been particularly interesting to me as a child, except for his ethereal beauty. Well, maybe a second thought, but most certainly not a third.  
  
"Can we get outta here for a while?" I asked, glancing around at the people who were slowly but surely edging their way into the conversation. Norms are just so damn curious and they show it. It's actually kind of cute, when you think about it. There is this norm, pretending not to listen, when that's actually what he's doing really, really hard. The sad part is that he doesn't hear half of the conversation.  
  
"Sure," Alan said, in a real easy drawl that had me gasping. He sounded so New Orleans that it turned my blood. Just where had this man-child spent his boyhood? He turned and tossed someone some keys to some girl standing near the edge of the circle. "Eli," he said, "tell Mama I'll be home as soon as possible. Got some old business to take care of. You can drive the car home."  
  
Eli stared at me suspiciously. She had dark, wavy hair that I envied greatly. Her eyes were an uninteresting brown without sparkles. I find that unless you have sparkles in brown eyes they just don't have the same effect that other eye colors have. My mother has sparkles in her brown eyes.  
  
"Eli," Alan said, "this is Ty. I've told you about Ty, remember?" Alan seemed slightly embarrassed that this Eli girl was giving me the eye of the basilisk just because I'd said something about how comely he was. Sheesh. Good job, Alan.  
  
"I'm his little sister," I said after a minute's pause. She didn't waver in her gaze at me. It looked true enough, from one point of view, though it was apparent that I had gotten none of the good genes that had graced Alan. "What's the matter, kid, don't believe me? What, do you think I want to sleep with him?" I laughed. "How old do I look, sistah?"  
  
Eli gave in, just a little bit, but I could see that I had won by the slight curving of her lips and the way that she relaxed her body. "Tell Mom and Pop that you aren't the only foster sister that Ally is graced with. Dear old Ty is here and ready rumble. But we gotta talk."  
  
Alan looked at Eli for a minute; the girl was very obviously wavering. Deciding that Eli was going to follow his request, Alan set off walking towards the gate. I hastened after him. How had all of my brothers and sisters gotten all of this extra confidence? First in Martin and his sudden appearance in the role that I had filled but left; then there was Frances and her . . . destroying of the car, which was actually kind of funny in an odd way; then there was Alan and his obvious knowledge that he would people following him. Was it because he was a natural leader among the norms, or just because he was beautiful? I didn't know him well enough to test.  
  
As we walked, side by side now that I had managed to catch up with him, Alan spoke. "You aren't the only one who assumed the other was dead. For a moment there I thought I was seeing some sort of ghost, or clone, if you will. Then I just . . . I just knew it was you. You know?" He glanced at me with his eyes bright with question. His eyes had darkened with the passing years, but his hair was brighter.  
  
"I know," I said simply. I did. It was something I worked against, but his door had been open and he'd known. It gladdened me. "I know exactly what you're talking about." I stopped walking and faced him, all business. Time for twenty questions, o brother of mine.  
  
"Where're we going?" Alan asked me. I blinked. What had happened? Had I spoken out loud? Had he heard my thoughts? I did a split second scan of the door blocking my thoughts from being view. There they were blocked. He could only get a vague emotion from me, unless he had gotten amazing in later years away from Manticore and its constant practicing. How had he turned my own game against me?  
  
I frowned. What was the question again? I did a replay in my mind, opening my drawer quickly and shutting it. "What do you mean?" I asked. From the time he asked the question to the time I answered I was certain that only a few seconds had passed.  
  
"That's what you came here for, isn't it? Relocation. You were always a stickler for that, six-six-six," Alan teased me by using my designation number. " You were always quizzing us on our classroom subjects and you said that when enemy territory it was best to keep moving."  
  
He was such a perfect soldier. Where had I seen that before? The eagerness to please, even if it meant losing his family?  
  
"Ally," I began. Alan interrupted me and informed me that it was Al. Eli was Eli and Alan was Al, not Eli. I smiled at that and started again. "Al, you have a family here. That's all I'm really doing, you see. I'm taking everyone to a family, getting them out of the government really. I go in and delete your records, giving you the new hard copies that Dad and I made for you, then I make sure that you've got a home."  
  
"But you're my sister, Ty. I'll leave right now if you think it'll be safer for me to start all over." I could see that he didn't really want to mean it, even though each word was said sincerely. He was willing to give up everything to please his CO. I had been the same way as a little child, and as a young adult. Isn't it odd how we imitate our leaders?  
  
I reached out and impulsively gave him a hug. "You've got a home." I looked him in the eye. "Remember all your homes, Alan. You have to. If you don't, what experiences will you draw from?" I took out the folder with his information on it. "Just have your parents sign that, Al," I said, turning.  
  
"Wait," cried Alan, grabbing my arm. "Aren't you at least gonna come to dinner?" He added a brilliantly dazzling grin to his request and for half a second I was severely tempted. It would be a simple dinner. I would meet his parents and then I could smile and play the adoring little sister and Eli would laugh with me and it would be so easy to fit in with this family. Then I came to my senses.  
  
"I can't," I said hopelessly. "I've went through this before, Al." We both knew that what I was referring to wasn't what I was referring to, in the best sense, but neither one of us was sure what I really meant. "You can't depend on me too much. Independence. Martin's got it down pat. There's a number in there -- you call it if you ever have any trouble."  
  
I turned from him and started walking to the hotel, where my things were. Behind me I could see Alan if I looked at nothing hard enough; I could see him standing there, with his cherub-like beauty grown into something more, worried and trying to decide whether I really meant what I had said. Almost unwhispered, I said to myself, "I meant every bit."  
  
~ ! ~ * ~ ! ~ * ~ ! ~ * ~ ! ~ * ~ ! ~ * ~ ! ~ *  
  
The plane trip back home was monotonous. Unfortunately, I was not in heat and therefore I assume that the steward was wasted on me. He was cute, in his own way, but no cuter than the usual stewards that attended aircraft were. I had only one drink, mostly because the stewardess gave me several glares when I requested the drink and it was only by the powers of my glare that got me my watered down drink in the first place. I wanted to hurt her, but she was only doing her job and I wasn't in the mood to get drunk anyway.  
  
I don't know if I've ever explained this, but flying in airplanes has always been something of a treat for me. When they're in the air and I'm down on the ground I like to think of how the airplane flies; how the engine works; how the position of the wings matter. It's something that's fun to think about for me. I dunno if it'd be fun for you, though. You might be bored to tears.  
  
I fell asleep on the flight. Pretty silly of me, isn't it? I mean, I can probably go days without sleep if I trained my mind -- well, tricked is more like it -- into thinking that it didn't need sleep. If the mind doesn't think it needs sleep, the body is less likely to recognize the facts that say it does.  
  
I woke in the middle of a layover. My seat mate had to slide over me and managed to spill something on me. I'm not sure what it was. I was half- asleep when I threw it at him. I just know that it left me smelling like peppermint, which I don't like. I was a wee bit shamed to see that I had slept, so I decided to stay away. To keep me busy, I cast glances around the plane, looking at people.  
  
There was this really ugly kid with an okay looking mom and dad in the row behind me. He had a snub nose -- I touched my own nose, rather snub, if truth be told, in my younger years -- and too many freckles. His teeth were crooked and his smile was lopsided. His hair looked like it couldn't decide between brown and blonde and his eyes were a dull blue. Uninteresting. Across the aisle from me, on my left, was a very pretty looking woman with several magazines open in her lap. A classic bimbo. My mother looked like one of these. I wondered if she maybe was hiding behind the pretty face? I looked at the magazines. Nope. Nice to know that they still existed in this world of genetically engineered supersoldiers. Immediately to my left and in front of me was Colonel Lydecker.  
  
I blinked. That wasn't right. I was overreacting, like that time at the train station when I had been on another search for a sibling. It wasn't Lydecker, it was my imagination. I have a very active imagination. Sometimes it gets a little carried away and I can't stop it from flying out of control. That's why I keep very tight reigns on that door, because even the smallest breath of wind in the corridor sets it loose.  
  
I wasn't imagining it, though. It was Deck. I was so screwed it wasn't even funny. I closed my eyes and slunk back in my seat, letting my head loll to the side, so that he wouldn't be able to get a good view of it. Then I brought my arm up, slowly, over my face and obscured it even more. I was very careful to keep my breathing even and regular. Now wasn't the time to panic.  
  
It was times like these that I needed to open the door. Maybe just a little bit. I looked into the corridor and saw the door. Walking up to it, I saw several strong locks on it. Boy, I really didn't want to get back in here. Was it worth it? He would most definitely know I was here if I messed up. But if I didn't try, there was the chance that he wouldn't see me. Don't norms take chances like that all the time? I'm asking because, see, I don't take those chances. If there's a place where I'm hopeless, then I get out of there. I pulled frantically on the handle; nothing. Thud . . . I tried again, but I got the same result. Where had I hidden that damn key? Thud . . . I searched m pockets, but I knew it was a fruitless gesture.  
  
Thud. Thud. Thud. What was making that noise? It sounded almost as if there were boots walking together in a hallway. Was there someone in my corridor? I turned my head side to side, looking for intruders. There should be no one in here! I saw nothing, so I warily opened my eyes.  
  
I was confronted with the backs of four men standing next to Lydecker's seat. I could tell they were special ops because, even though they were dressed in civvies, they had on the boots of soldiers and, even if some of you might not know where to look, I could see on the back of their necks that there was a serial number tattooed. Human soldiers were Arabic numerals on their necks that can easily be removed. Who were you expecting, Santa Claus?  
  
I was up the creek without a paddle, that was for sure.  
  
~ ! ~ * ~ ! ~ * ~ ! ~ * ~ ! ~ * ~ ! ~ * ~ ! ~ * 


	21. The Bronze

T2: So Tiny Tyronica.  
  
AUTHOR: Karen Murray.  
  
RATING: PG-13/R-ish (for language).  
  
SPOILERS: I & I, basically an AU after mid-season 1, though.  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I'd like to say "sorry!" for not getting this out like months ago. But the chapters annoyed me. I honestly like almost everything after this ... and I have most of it handwritten!  
  
Part .21  
  
I took several deep, calming breaths and tried to relax. It wouldn't do any good if I just jumped out in a panic and ran off the plane as quickly as I could. I had a feeling that they would come after me if I tried that little trick. Worst case scenario, they might catch me and bring me back to Manticore, where I couldn't take care of my brothers and sisters. Best case scenario? They'd be able to ID me, at the very least, and know that I was in the country. Not good, not good at all.  
  
These soldiers, I knew what they were. I had watched their training as a young child, when I was supposed to be playing escape and evade with my brothers and sisters and instead we'd gone off playing, our collective mind strong enough to know when someone was near us and in a position to see. They were simple, those sent after us to capture us in the woods, and it was really only a matter of the norm game hide and seek, only they had darts that would paralyses you for five minutes.  
  
They were recruited young. Right off the streets, these guys were from, and given the best training that norms can get. They were Manticore's special soldiers, the ones who looked after the rowdy X-groups. They never bothered with the PA-1s or the MA-1s or any of us other lower barrack kids. I guess we were what Mama calls nomlies to the X-ers. We were small enough in numbers that we could be contained in one large group. We were well behaved enough -- as far as they knew -- that we never merited extra guarding.  
  
And that's how Andrea and Lezli had first seen these soldiers. Working almost perfectly together, shirt less in the sun, we had watched these older children and marveled at their strength while at the same time laughing at their inflexibility and lack of speed. It was Frannie who asked if they were guards. I asked why and she told me, she said, "Look at their necks. They don't have a barcode. They have normal numbers."  
  
And so we had watched, fascinated, as the young soldier-boys worked and got better. We had been young, maybe eight, maybe not, and it had been a new play, watching them. However, after a few weeks, the boys had graduated up into the outfits of men and they became our guards, holding us back when we wished to go forward. It didn't matter that these men were not the mindless idiots -- and we ought to know, being who were were -- who watched us with an unsuspectingly apathetic mind. Once they changed from boys training in a field to boys playing in dark uniforms with the tattoos on their neck taking on new meaning, they changed from friends into enemies. Like a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis, the colors they wore symbolized a new type of animal to be watched.  
  
And now they were standing not five feet away from me. Four soldiers highly trained, specifically trained, to deal with the X-series of soldier, a breed more superior than any of the test groups like the one I had belonged to back home. They would know how to react to whatever I could remember to throw at them. They would know how to react to things which I had never learned, never thought of learning.  
  
"Sir," one of them said. He spoke quietly, in a low voice, but I heard him all the same. Having enhanced hearing helps you major, especially when you're straining to hear the conversation. "I have a possible prison escapee sighting in Atlanta." I let out a quiet whoosh of breath. Georgia. What as in Georgia? Not much besides peaches was on my memory. Relief.  
  
"Which group?" Lydecker asked in his even tone. It sent shivers down my back. You never forget the voice that speaks the first words of your memories. It is place in your soul and tied to you forever, like it's super glued to the door into your memories.  
  
Another soldier spoke, this one whose voice pitch was slightly higher than that of the first. It made me want to let loose a giggle; he sounded like he could be the youngest of the man-soldiers I'd seen yet. Or had I merely grown up? "Approximate age puts it in the zero-nine group, sir." Silently, I let out a breath that I had taken in and held. Wasn't my group, wasn't my problem. I'd left nearly eleven years later. What was Lydecker going to do?  
  
To my great happiness, I saw him stand slowly up and begin walking down the plane aisle toward the exit. SCORE! I closed my eyes and would have begun praying if I actually thought there was someone up there who cared about me. When I opened them, the last soldier was making his way out of the plane.  
  
{vivid thoughts}  
  
Time to go through some more video for the project. This time I make certain that I have the right footage. I can't stand with when some inept nancy boy who is only working here because Uncle Joe owns the company gives me the wrong vids. It isn't as if it's hard. All of my files are marked, very well, and you just need to go through them to get the ID numbers for the tapes. So why in the hell is it taking them so long?  
  
I tap my pencil on the desk and look at the objects sitting all over my desk. Scattered largely across it are papers. Glancing across them I see words like TRACING, HACKS, NEWS, and other such things as pertinent to my project. Towards the upper left hand corner of my desk it's cleaner. You can see the pictures of my family there. I smile. There's my son, Case, playing basketball. He's gonna be real good someday, maybe even play on a professional team in Canada or, if that fails, back east.  
  
Cass is standing behind her brother, watching him with uninterested eyes. My daughter doesn't care about anything but running, and she doesn't understand the hype about basketball. Amy has her arm around Cass's shoulder and is looking at our son with admiration in her eyes. Amy could have gone pro, back before the Pulse. Too bad she had to drop out of school early to help keep her little brothers and sisters fed. And way too bad that she hurt her ankle during a mob riot at the store where she worked. Life sometimes through you lemons. At least Amy had made lemonade; our two kids are great.  
  
There's my fucking assistant. Where the hell had he been? He's muttering something about not being able to find the files about and I just stare at him. I know he's lying. I need a new fucking assistant. This one has the balls of a housefly and twitches about just like one. I grab the box of tapes and shut the door in his face.  
  
I turn on the TV and pop the tape into the DVD player. It begins playing, and I watch as the man I'm hunting and searching for's face comes on the screen and he begins to talk.  
  
"Do not attempt to adjust your sets, this is a streaming freedom video bulletin . . . ."  
  
{/vivid thoughts}  
  
I sat up, gasping. My chest felt like I had cubes of ice sitting on the very bottom of it and trying to ride upwards on a wave of panic that was threatening to come gushing out. I closed my eyes and tried to steady my breath, but the idea of it hurt, so I just held it for a few minutes until I got dizzy from fright and lack of air combined.  
  
I was wrong about Casey Billings haphazardly finding my father in all of those old vid footage. It wasn't that there was some mistake and my dad happened to be in every place that Billings was searching. It was the fact that Billings was going about his work too well. He was searching for Eyes Only and he kept running over Logan Cale. Sooner or later he would figure out the connection ...  
  
And then my dad would be in trouble. I shivered as if there was a breeze laced with ice running past me in thinly clad feet. I knew that what I had in my head was only a copy of what the real Billings had stored away in his -- a memory of his, to put it in a way that I could understand in my frantic state. I had greater access to it, being able to play, pause, and rewind whenever I wanted, but that didn't take away the fact that Billings had the memory first, and still had it.  
  
I needed a drink. These facts were spinning around too much in my poor little head. I wasn't sure what to think after a moment. Would I have taken the actual memories from Billings, one might ask? I didn't think so -- they didn't weigh like real memories, none of them did, which is why it was so easy to check the old from the new. They came in flashes, like movies. They weren't a part of me, I was just storing them. Even my own memories, stored away in their filing cabinets, still had a string connecting them to my self, my being. They wouldn't be real memories without them. Sometimes it was hard to tell if I had a string, true, but, still, there was always one.  
  
Could I do anything? Could I go rooting around in the memories, into the filing cabinets, and find what I was looking for? My body convulsed again, this time with something I wasn't going to deny was a little bit of terror at the thought of having to dig around unfilled memories and search for ones pertaining to Billings. There was a one in a million chance that I'd actually find a relevant memory in my quest; there were a lot of superfluous thoughts racing around unfilled in my head.  
  
I looked around at the people surrounding me and sighed. I loved my dad, but I wasn't going to chance getting lost in my own mind on the off-chance that some idiotic freak had actually figured out he was eyes only. I was too afraid, remembering what had happened when I had raced off from Mom and Dad's in a huff and had opened my mind blindly, searching for everything and nothing to calm me and had taken in the world and its fears, loves, hates, insecurities, happiness, anger, and peace.  
  
I would wait until Billings surfaced again. But I wasn't about to wade into a river of uncertain waters to satisfy a hunger for knowledge.  
  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~  
  
I stayed over in Vegas for two months and contemplated being a dancer. I don't think I wanted to go home. And Vegas was pretty. There were lights there, and they served alcohol to anyone. I actually learned a really amazing little trick where you neutralize all the 'bad toxins' in your body so you don't have a hangover. I had to sleep a lot after doing it and when I woke I always had to pee like a bitch, but it was pretty nifty for when I wanted to get up early and wander around the city, looking at the desert. If there is one thing in the world that I like almost as much as much as the ocean up north, it is desert, especially Nevada and California. They've both got a certain, death-like charm to them that calls to me. And when I first got out I stayed in the desert a while, just being me.  
  
Maybe that's why I was attracted to Vegas. That or the parties. I attended some pretty wild bashes there. I didn't know what to do half the time, but I definitely decided that the life of dancing wasn't me. I dunno about you, but at that moment in time dancing in Vegas meant you have to carry protection and a purse for large bills. Shiver me timbers and all that, but I wasn't really ready for a life as such.  
  
So I only stayed for two months. Still, I arrived home in Seattle's mist in record time. And when I say record time I mean time enough to walk right into the middle of an apartment filled with half-a-dozen screaming children racing around near-naked (apparently they were American Indians; as they were all under four I didn't mind) and the remnants of cake all over the table. I scrunched my eyes and tried to figure out what had been written on the cake. All I got were hand prints in what may have been either a K, B, R, or F. The last one was grasping, really, but I wasn't certain.  
  
I sat down heavily on a chair, and I looked around furiously for my mother when I discovered my new pants, gotten in Vegas with hard earned (and honestly earned) money, were covered in raspberry and ... chocolate ice cream. Where in the world was the chocolate ice cream and could I get a bowl? I searched the room and finally lit upon three things of ice cream in the trash. No fair. I pouted a bit, then stood up and tried to wipe off my pants with a paper napkin.  
  
One of my siblings came racing into the room. As this little one was shirt less and had medium cropped hair, I couldn't tell which of the two it was. Either Qeleigh or Roan-Sullivan. Poor little things. This creature was covered in what appeared to be the contents of the boxes that were empty and trashed -- my ice cream. I wondered if I could lick the child and if so, would I be sent to prison for doing so. Mom came rushing in immediately after, not at fool speed but still fast enough that I had to grin. In her arms was the other twin who looked remarkably like the other except for the lack of bronzing on the skin.  
  
"Qeleigh ..." Mom called out warningly. Bronze accordingly turned and frowned rather severely at our mother. What in the world had Mama done? Had I ever given her such a stare? I must have, when I was quite younger and I thought it was fun to argue with Mom. It was almost an attractive feature on the little girl -- she could work out looking disappointed to her advantage. "You mustn't hit your brother *or* your guests."  
  
The bronze child just let out a snarl. Apparently, our mother's transgenic DNA was strong in this little one. "He said that Kali loved him more than she loved me. And it's not true. Kali loves me, she told me so. I love her back, more than anything." She turned to her brother and gave another growl from deep in her chest.  
  
"Whoa, there, Skip," I said chidingly. The little bronze one, my mother, and Roan-Sullivan all turned to me, apparently surprised to see me in the corner. I shrugged my shoulders indifferently. "Hey, she sounds like she's some sort of canine when she makes those noises. You honestly think that *I* am going to let that pass. Not on your life. Come here, you Bronze animal, and let me see if you smell like chocolate ice cream."  
  
Accordingly the small, ice cream covered thing came rushing towards me and landed on my lap with a splat and the definite odor of ice cream. I opened my mouth to let out a protest, but one look at Mom's face had me snapping it shut again quickly with thoughts of a more diplomatic approach to the situation. My poor mother looked exhausted, and that was saying something. I turned to the girl in my lap, unstuck some hairs from her face, and asked, "And who is Kali, Bronze?"  
  
"Kali loves me," the bronze thing replied just as if it was the most explanative answer in the world. I nodded sagely.  
  
"Shall I take her off your hands while you keep an eye on Roan-Sullivan?" I asked Mom. I saw a little redheaded girl go past and the bronze kid squirmed a bit in my arms and reached out -- it must have been Kali. Dad came into the room in hot pursuit of a chubby kid carrying a vase that looked to be about three thousand dollars -- I nodded in his direction and he grunted back, out of breath.  
  
"Please," Mom answered, clearly glad to be able to get rid of the second twin. "It's not like I have nothing better to do. I seriously shoulda thought twice before I thought motherhood would be a breeze. You were my example -- you were fun, easy, and I could play rough. These are not Manticores, but they've got the energy for it. They break more easily, tie, and fight more quickly."  
  
As if to give example to this, Roan-Sullivan managed to get out of Mom's arm and race after Dad and the assumed Kali, screaming at the top of his lungs that he loved her, please, oh, please, love him back. Bronze wriggled and twisted in my lap, but I tightened my arms around her and she got the message. It didn't stop her from biting me, but I ignored that; I'd done as much when I was a child and didn't get my way.  
  
I could see where they got their temper -- my mother. The lack of control I was going to blame on my father, not me. Dad could not keep any emotion out of his face; he couldn't keep any emotion out of his *eyes* really, and that's what I loved about his glasses. They kept the world at a sort of distance. But when he did his Eyes Only reports, he brought the world in, tried to help them see everything from his point of view so they could make choices as to right and wrong.  
  
"Come on, Bronze," I told her. "You and I are going to go plan your and Kali's next party. You two can bring the boys of your choice."  
  
"Oh no," the Bronzed-Qel told me quite seriously, "I'm not going to date anyone but Kali."  
  
Mom's laughter followed us out of the room. It sounded more like a desperate attempt at sanity than anything else. Don't have children until I'm thirty-five. CHECK. 


End file.
